


Urban Gentrification

by Dalandel, raiyana



Series: Modern Middle-Earth [4]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Anxiety, Body Worship, Childhood Trauma, Class Differences, Face-Fucking, Gay Sex, Gothmog Loves His Cat, Hurt/Comfort, Innuendo, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Mildly Dubious Consent, Modern Middle Earth, Past Abuse (hinted), Pet Names, Piercings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Shower Sex, Size Kink, Stoned Sex, Tags May Change, self-destructive behaviours
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2019-11-03 19:45:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 130,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17884031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dalandel/pseuds/Dalandel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Maeglin had been told coach Gothmog would be easily recognisable, and heis, the description ‘fiery-haired giant’ not quite the exaggeration he’d expected.“Looks like it’s you and me, lad.” Gothmog says, stepping up and holding out a glove for the young man to put on. “I do hope you don’t think you’ll be leaving without a few sore spots,” he adds conversationally.Checking the fit of the gloves, he nods, pulling his hair back into a small bun to keep it out of his eyes. “Let’s see what you can do then, lad.”Maeglin has no idea what’s about to hit him… and neither does Gothmog.After all, love is never won by pulling your punches in the first round.





	1. Plump Fiction

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Among Ivory Towers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14516166) by [raiyana](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana). 



> Raiy: This is a spin-off born from a stray mention in AIT and I blame its inception on Dalandel and her Maeglin  
> Dalandel: I want it noted that I respectfully disagree with you about asses but you give me no choice but to go with that, and so they've all become arses instead.  
> Raiy: I'm not sure what that has to do with anything, but okay! I take full responsibility for arses...

He had been told coach Gothmog would be easily recognisable, and he  _ is _ , the description ‘fiery-haired giant’ not quite the exaggeration he’d expected. It’s the guy the coach just greeted like an old friend who makes Maeglin wonder if the urge he’d felt mere fifteen minutes earlier to continue past the gym door had been a well-intended warning from the universe he’d once again ignored. Usually the city is big enough for him to drown in, blend in with the rabble and never be seen, but now some divinity had thought it fun to play a trick on him and put him together here with no other but Glorfindel- _ fucking _ -Lysild. The pen gripped by suddenly bloodless fingers creaks with the force of his grip, screeching across the paper. He shakes his head – it’s not like he intends to return,  _ now _ – and doesn’t bother to rewrite his last name. 

Glorfindel’s presence is like a memory forced upon him, unbidden and unwelcome, a splash of colour from another life Maeglin walked away from to live his own truth. Likewise, if Glorfindel’s eyes pass over him, they see very little, glancing off years of pain and doubt like a dull axe from ancient heartwood. Void, he’s still brilliant, bold and vibrant, and somehow it makes only too much sense that this flame-licked beast of a man seems to be close to him, something of Glorfindel’s gold mixed with liquid sunrises and ruffled phoenix feathers. 

Gods, and now they’re  _ laughing _ . At each other, maybe – or at Maeglin. He doesn’t know, but the thought rekindles that odd sense of old shame, effortlessly shaving ten years off his age and returning him to his awkward adolescence. Glorfindel was always like this. Easy, companionable, effortlessly handsome. Maeglin envied him then, and he envies him now, and for a moment hates himself for it enough to entertain the thought of turning away and fucking off.  _ That _ , at least, he knows how to do. He’s done that a lot during his life.

Fucking, and fucking off – though admittedly, with the former there’s been a bit of a dry spell lately.

He takes another look at Glorfindel – he’s changed so little since Maeglin last saw him,  _ incredible _ – before he tears his gaze away, feeling a nervous flush dapple his cheekbones while a cold shiver makes its way up his spine. Maeglin’s nothing to him – but the twinkling blue eyes of this boxing coach regard him with unmistakable curiosity.  _ Gothmog _ . Uncommon name for an uncommon man. Maeglin feels an echo of that curiosity buzz through him in answer, the kind that gives his eyes cause and freedom to roam as the coach moves towards him, fluid leonine grace in every step.

“Looks like it’s you and me, lad.” Gothmog says, stepping up and holding out a glove for the young man to put on. “I do hope you don’t think you’ll be leaving without a few sore spots,” he adds conversationally, turning away from Glorfindel’s attempt at pounding something – or some _ one _ , rather – out of his mind to tighten the Velcro straps around the young man’s wrists. Maeglin looks a little apprehensive, sure, but so do most of his new trainees – Gothmog is big enough to be unnerving even without meaning to – and he’s learned how to make himself less intimidating. Giving the guy a small smile, he adds a slightly brusque command: “Tap your fists together.” Maeglin isn’t here for niceness, he’s sure; part of him feels certain the slim young man is here to learn how to defend himself in the type of fights that break out in certain parts of the city’s night-life. 

Gothmog doesn’t judge; his father always said that all people – men  _ and _ women – ought to know how to throw a proper punch, and nothing in Gothmog’s life has shown him that statement to be in error. 

Checking the fit of the gloves, he nods, pulling his hair back into a small bun to keep it out of his eyes. 

“Let’s see what you can do then, lad.” 

Chuckling to himself at the glare painted on that narrow face, he slides on the pads and slips nimbly through the ropes, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet as he turns, the excitement of being in the ring rushing through his body. 

“Coming?” he taunts.

Maeglin huffs quietly to himself as he watches Gothmog enter the ring – if possible, this man looks even bigger inside it, and Maeglin isn’t sure if it’s envy, admiration, or a hint of fear he feels in the pit of his belly. Possible a mixture of all of the above.

_ You get yourself into the weirdest of places. _

Maeglin hopes his nerves don’t show when he joins the giant in the ring, blowing black hair off his face and hopping a little on his feet to warm up his calves. He starts a little faster than he meant to, but the quick appreciative look he catches glinting across Gothmog’s gaze doesn’t let him ease out of his pace. Damn it if he blows his load this early. 

Though, he must admit, he’s never had an opponent this good-looking, and that’s an entirely new challenge he’s not ready to face, it seems. Still, he executes his moves with as much accuracy as he can muster, even when his muscles start to slowly burn with fatigue.

Maeglin is stronger than he looks, Gothmog decides; the baggy clothes hide a slim but sinewy build, like a swimmer’s, and though punching like that will tire him out quicker, he’s not quite so small as he first appeared. He’s also better-looking; the long-ish face possesses cheekbones sharp enough to cut, and those dark eyes seem filled with an inner fire. Gothmog wants to see if he can make that fire blaze – and it’s not just because he finds Maeglin surprisingly pleasing to the eye; making someone lose their temper in the ring is a good way to see what they’re made of, he’s found. 

“Good,” he praises, “your  _ aim  _ is fine – we can work on strength.” The glare his taunts earn him makes him chuckle to himself – there’s a fiery spirit in this bloke, and Gothmog is going to find out which kind.  _ Soon _ . 

Unstrapping the padded deflectors from his hands, he stretches slowly, lumbering over to his own gear and picking up a pair of old gloves, telling himself to mind  _ his _ strength – even with the warning, he doesn’t truly want to  _ hurt _ his new trainee – as he pulls each glove on, securing them with the ease of long practice.

Maeglin looks more apprehensive now, but Gothmog gives him a reassuring grin, waggling his bushy brows in the way that always makes Thuringwethil chuckle and call him a big dumb teddy bear. 

“Footwork,” he says, returning to the ring, “how you  _ move _ is at least as important as how you hit your opponent.” Nodding at Maeglin’s scuffed trainers, he chuckles again. 

_ What’s your game? _ Maeglin wonders,  _ you don’t even sound winded.  _

“Balance your weight; bend your knees – the fighter with the lower centre of gravity has an advantage.”

Maeglin does as he’s told, that pert –  _ pinchable _ – little arse sticking out as Gothmog circles him, returning his taunts with a touch of breathlessness. 

_ Stop talking, damnit, _ Maeglin thinks, pretending that he isn’t feeling a little breathless when he taunts him back. “Come at me.”

Gothmog grins. Maeglin is conscious of his feet but he is not in proper balance. A light tap on the shoulder sends him sprawling, landing hard on his arse with a small sound of surprise that Gothmog tries not to find  _ too _ adorable.

“Always move  _ with _ your centre of gravity,” he reprimands, “do not extend your upper body that far forwards when attacking; you’re ungrounded. Like this,” he adds, falling into the basic stance almost without thinking, and doing a quick jab-jab-punch combo at thin air before looking back down at Maeglin. “Again.”

“I know my centre of gravity,” Maeglin says, his tone a little more vexed than he meant it to be. There’s a tingle running down from his shoulder to his fingers, and for a fleeting moment his arm feels foreign, as if he’d slept on it. 

Frowning, he tries to remedy it as he pushes himself up, widening his stance accordingly. He had been careless, yes. It won’t happen again. Not here. Not in front of this guy. “I did Muay Thai for six years.” Technically, five and half, and only once a week, but Gothmog doesn’t need to know the details. Maeglin grins, flips back his hair with his arm, his dark eyes twinkling. “Okay. Try to keep up, will you,” he teases, “a man of your size should hit harder than that.” 

_ Cheeky wee thing, _ Gothmog thinks, making a harrumphing noise in the back of his throat – might be amusement, might be anger, might be the lick of arousal he felt picturing tossing Maeglin down onto the blue sheets of his  _ bed _ , instead – hiding a grin in his full beard. He likes them feisty. 

Giving the coach another cheeky grin, Maeglin offers his best left straight punch, making sure he doesn’t lean too far ahead this time. His bruised arse might sting along with his pride, but if he’s learned anything out there, it’s the difference between a bully and healthy male ego.This guy might kill him, but hey. It would be a glorious death. 

And Maeglin didn’t come here to be coddled.

Dancing away from Maeglin’s punch, Gothmog grins – people often wonder how such a big man moves so lithely, but he usually just scratches his full beard with a wink that does not reveal the years he spent as a ballet student at Nessa Academy – returning the punch with a small feint of his own. 

He  _ had  _ planned to do more assessment before deciding how to approach this training session, and for a moment he’s pleased that Glorfindel remains singularly focused on his punching bag, ignoring this break in routine when it comes to boxing coaching.

“And what would you know about men of my…  _ size? _ ” he purrs, simply for the pleasure of watching those dark eyes spark with another lust-tinged burst of annoyance.  _ Interesting _ . He hadn’t  _ planned _ for seduction tonight, really, but the thought has a certain potential that makes him want to take up the taunt he reads in those eyes, circling slowly.

This time, he does not pull the punch, a swift double-jab to the ribs; in real fights, he would have followed it up with a spectacular uppercut but Maeglin isn’t wearing helmet or mouthguard and breaking his jaw might not ruin his chances for more, later – but it surely won’t help his suddenly vivid imagination come to fruition, either. 

“Dance with me,” he taunts, always just out of range – he has the advantage of reach, and certainly weight – but his mind is still occupied with cataloguing the strengths and weaknesses of his opponent, part of him already forming a plan for future training sessions. He can’t match Gothmog for strength, true, but he moves well, and he  _ does _ have a sense of awareness of the physical space and his own presence within it. “Show me what you’ve got, hmm?” His feet move with the speed and graceful discipline that he trained into them from a young age, and though Maeglin is a  _ quick _ little fiend and not afraid to press a perceived advantage, he will tire of punching air long before Gothmog gets bored with his dancing. 

Maeglin can’t help enjoying their little spar – the words they exchange may be quick cheeky jabs and carefully calculated taunts, but beneath it all it feels like a game. The old man isn’t a pushover – it’s almost as if Gothmog is anticipating his every move, he steps out of Maeglin’s way so easily, and Maeglin suppresses a growl of annoyance as another of his punches meets only air thick with the aroma of sweat. A part of Maeglin’s brain reminds him that this is a contact sport, and it’s as if Gothmog’s amused by him flailing and spending his strength.  _ What’s your game, ginger-beard? _

Maeglin doesn’t really even think about it – he lowers his head and slips past the muscular arms, ramming into the bulky chest, his long thighs coming around the man to wrap around him as they fall. At first, his own face transforms with a sneer – his temper is a little high, adrenaline like a drug in his system, and fuck that wicked grin alighting that strong handsome face, because that’s just all sorts of unfair…

 

The grapple is a surprise only because he did not think to look for it, and when his back meets the mattress, Maeglin landing atop him with a small grunt, Gothmog’s grin widens. Bucking his hips up, he catches the slight look of surprise on Maeglin’s face just before he has them flipped, the dark hair flying out around Maeglin’s head as he stares up, chest heaving.

Gothmog leans in, vaguely aware of the thuds of punches in the distance, Maeglin’s dark eyes locked on his face, his mouth slightly open in surprise that Gothmog finds  _ incredibly _ sensual. Breathing softly against one finely shaped ear, his beard scratches pleasantly against Maeglin’s cheek in passing.

Maybe Maeglin winces, with the way his arse and bruised side remind him of the past fifteen minutes, but that kind of discomfort is the last thing on Maeglin’s mind as a pair of lips flits close to his ear, a hot exhale twisting his insides in delicious knots. He turns his head just a bit to feel that coarse-yet-soft beard brush across his own clean-shaven cheek, an odd rush passing down along his spine at being pinned down by those large hands. There’s something horribly exhilarating about being trapped without hope of escape.

“If you’d rather wrestle, lad,” he says, well aware that his lust-roughened voice makes his accent harder to understand – and equally aware of the way Maeglin shivers beneath him at the sound that rumbles through his chest to spill into words that convey all manner of invitations, “ _ just say so _ .”

_ Oh yes _ , Gothmog thinks,  _ Maeglin is definitely interested… no faking  _ that.  

With a light smirk of satisfaction, Gothmog pulls back, leaping to his feet and offers Maeglin a hand up.

Maeglin’s still trying to come up with something to say when Gothmog suddenly pushes himself up, taking his splendid weight with him, and then pulling Maeglin up too with so little effort that his head spins.

“You can toss the gloves in the bin over there,” Gothmog says, nodding towards the corner with his head before swinging himself over the rope, ignoring the sound behind him, beginning as rage and ending as something closer to a whimper when he pulls off his gloves and shirt in rapid succession.

_ Gloves. Bin. Right. _

Maeglin looks up from his hands to see that hulk pull off his shirt, and the way the muscles under the freckled skin of Gothmog’s back strain and bunch causes more hot blood to rush southwards. Maeglin bites his lip, trying to keep the sound in. He fails, hopes Gothmog didn’t hear – hopes that he, in fact,  _ heard _ .

Gothmog’s smirk grows wider as he heads for Glorfindel’s much-abused bag, hearing the twin thuds of a pair of gloves tossed angrily into the bin he uses for students who do not bring their own equipment.

His own groin – carefully strapped in – gives a hopeful twitch at the sound of footsteps.

Well, if he isn’t being flirted at, Maeglin doesn’t know what the fuck that even is. You just...  _ don’t  _ pull stunts like that without wanting to get a piece.

A slow smirk catches at the corners of his refined mouth, and his cock clearly agrees with his assessment. It’s been some time, anyway, and there’s a lot more to win than to lose. Besides, Gothmog is  _ gorgeous _ . If he likes guys – and if he likes  _ Maeglin – _ Maeglin’s luckier for it.

_ You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into, old man _ , he thinks as he finally manages to shrug off his gloves, hastily pulling at his shirt – and wincing as a pulled muscle complains. Gothmog promised him bruises – bruises are what he got. That’s only fair.

He looks around hastily before slipping into the locker room, throwing his damp shirt on the bench, making sure to pull himself straight and his shoulders back to casually display his lean, wiry shape. Maeglin knows it’s good, he works on it a lot. He’s been complimented for his body by several people – and the glances Gothmog gave him earlier tell him the coach agrees.

Still, a flutter of nerves tingles in the pit of his belly as he turns around and keys open his dented locker. His sweaty hair hides his expression as he pulls off his shorts, lifting one foot and then the other, making sure to give Gothmog a pleasant view should he choose to look. At least he shaved his arse this morning – he can feel droplets of perspiration slipping freely down his cleft towards his bollocks, his hole clench a bit at the sensation of one being swallowed by his rim. 

_ Are you watching? _ Maeglin wishes he had eyes in his back.

He bundles the shorts up into a loose ball and tosses them into the locker – tilting a hip in a very calculated manner in the process – and picks up two bottles from the duffel bag he’s squeezed in behind lock and key. One of them is shower gel.

Even as he waves off Glorfindel – dude’s frustrated and Gothmog feels for him but he knows better than to offer a hand; they tried that, once, and it was the kind of thing that was good in the moment, but better left as a once-off – Gothmog’s eyes follow Maeglin’s swaying hips as he pushes open the door to the locker rooms.

_ That arse promises to be all kinds of amazing _ .

He feels a sudden visceral need to bury himself in that tight sheath, wrapping his hands in those dark locks as he pushes home, leaving more bruises on that fair skin – they might not have been sparring long, but there’s bound to be a few already, growing to purple over the next few hours.

Maeglin’s the first one in the showers – and luckily, so far the only one. He smirks a little as he chooses the furthest stall next to a window made of smoky glass. There’s a nice little ledge running along the wall to set the bottles on, narrow enough for Maeglin to wrap his fingers around the lip. He tests it, jerks it a little to make sure it can take his weight, and once satisfied, turns on the water. 

First it’s icy cold, and then it’s scorching hot – Maeglin fiddles with the faucet to make the temperature something more bearable. There are some bruises on him which could do with cooler water, but Maeglin doesn’t want to kill his budding erection; he’s got frozen peas at home for those, later.

Untying the drawstring of his shorts, Gothmog drops them before the door swings shut behind him, turning to lock it with a soft click.

The water is on, covering the sound of his footsteps as he stalks into the showers, treated to the sight of that perky arse thrust provocatively out at him, Maeglin’s spine bent back as his face is struck by the water, making his wet hair cling to his shoulders in dark tangled snarls. The sight of the bottles on the sill makes him smirk – Maeglin came prepared for  _ something _ , at least, and if Gothmog plays his cards right,  _ he _ will be that something.

Maeglin isn’t sure if he heard the door or not – the steaming water roars, drowning under it even the fluttering beat of his heart. He swallows, lifts his head to let the stream rush over his heated face, turning his skin pink. The nipples which had pebbled under the cold rush smooth out a little again, and Maeglin pinches at each to make them stand out from his chest – his cock recognises the sensation, gives an eager nod as it swells a little further, extending towards the cracked white tiles off the wall.

_ Come on _ , he thinks to himself, rubbing his hands over his face to wash off the sweat.  _ Come on _ , he urges in his thoughts as he throws back his head, sends water flying in a glistening arch.  _ You know you want to. _

Gothmog’s cock, hot and heavy, bobs with each step until he comes to a halt just behind Maeglin, not close enough to feel those globes spread around him, but close enough that Maeglin will feel the heat coming off his body.

Reaching out, he traces one hand slowly over the ribs he punched earlier. “Eager, are you, pet?” he purrs, leaning in to lick a broad stripe up the column of Maeglin’s neck. Wrapping his lips around his earlobe and sucking gently, he flicks one small pebbled nipple with a nail, rolling the tight bud beneath the pad of his thumb. Running his free hand down, he cups Maeglin’s left buttock, feeling the taut flesh fill his hand, probably slightly sore from meeting the mat earlier. He squeezes.

_ That voice. _

The sound of it makes Maeglin throb even before his earlobe is pulled into deceptively tender kiss, the lips working a shiver out of him and almost making his knees buckle. This is a kink he didn’t know he had – maybe it’s that odd accent (unlikely) or the cadence and gentle weight of it resonating right through him even if their bodies don’t quite touch. His instinct bids him to lean back against it, that voice and that hot body, but he doesn’t want to appear that desperate. No. If he plays that card, it will wait for a while.

Even if he doesn’t know how he’ll make that far. The bugger is already fondling his nipple ripe and gripping his arse in a way which leaves little room to guesswork. The bruise feels like a flame in that tight, possessive grasp, but Maeglin quite likes it; a whine whittles up his throat, causing him to bite his red lip redder and push back against that hand in a way  _ he totally didn’t mean _ .

_ Eager _ ? Oh yes. It’s pointless to lie. It was Maeglin who left a trail of breadcrumbs for Gothmog to follow, after all. He turns to look at the man over his sculpted white shoulder, noting how the humidity makes the red hair frizz. The beard has a heady scent, that of sweat and something else – and that something else quite makes Maeglin want to nuzzle it just to find out. 

Gothmog pinches Maeglin’s nipple sharply, just to see what he likes better. He’s not disappointed.

_ Oh, you are going to be  _ **_fun_ ** _. _

Maeglin’s nipple aches between those blunt nails, sensitising his entire body before the pleasure of sharp pain numbs his thoughts, makes him aware of the big hands only, and the strong, quite handsome face.

“I think you are,” Gothmog says, running a fingertip teasingly around that furled muscle, feeling a shiver vibrate through Maeglin’s slender frame.  _ So soft. So tight.  _

Gothmog answers before Maeglin can form any words, and then a curious finger is toying with Maeglin’s hole, smoothing out the wrinkled skin with a wet, warm caress that robs him of coherent speech. 

_ Oh, I am so very willing to wreck you. But not yet.  _ A demanding whine rips from Maeglin’s throat when he nips at a spot on his neck. “Clean?” 

Some distantly aware part of him makes Maeglin nod at the question, then utter a vocal affirmation, almost desperate to turn around and look at what he’s being offered. 

Maeglin’s half-moan, half-whine almost covers the small  _ yes _ that escapes him, but Gothmog hears it regardless, smirking into pale skin and nibbling along his neck. “Me too,” he offers.  _ Safety first. _ Maeglin whines again, pressing his chest harder into Gothmog’s hands. “Needy, hmm?” Gothmog smiles, runnings his hands in small teasing circles over Maeglin’s wet skin.  _ Not that I can claim to be less so, precious… especially not with this arse on display… _

Taking that last half-step forwards, he releases Maeglin’s arse to capture his face, claiming his mouth in a kiss that turns into a moan of half-surprise when he finally lets himself slide through the cleft of that perfect arse. The ribs along his frenum catch beautifully, even if the angle is wrong for that particular torture. Maeglin isn’t  _ short _ , really, but everyone looks small compared to Gothmog.

The groan Gothmog lets out is nothing short of hungry, and Maeglin can appreciate and reciprocate that sentiment. He opens his mouth in more than passive acquiescence, slipping his tongue in – the beard tickles, but it’s softer than it looks, and those lips are smooth. 

The wordless moan of approval makes Gothmog grin wolfishly, and Maeglin’s tongue in his mouth is as insistent as the way his arse presses against Gothmog’s groin, fingers skittering over his thigh. 

Despite the slightly odd angle, the kiss is  _ good _ , and Maeglin hums when Gothmog’s tongue dives in with a suggestive motion. Curious, Maeglin snakes a hand between them, and meets more than flesh; fascinated, he runs his fingers along the tactically placed metal bars, moaning a little at the way his long fingers don’t meet when he wraps his hand around the hot length.

“Like tha’, is it?” Gothmog rumbles huskily, letting go of Maeglin’s face to run his large hand down that smooth chest, playing with his still-untouched nipple on the way and scratching lightly across his abdominals, feeling them jump and bunch beneath his touch; his arse spreading so willingly around him that Gothmog  _ really  _ hopes he will get to feel the inside of it some day. Gothmog’s hand finds Maeglin’s cock in turn, closing around it in an almost protective manner. Nipping at his lips, he feels the water pound against his skull, running in between them, flattening his chest hair. “You like em big, hmm?”

Spraying droplets glue Maeglin’s eyelashes together, drawing tracks down his face. They don’t hide the flush in his cheeks.  _ It’s not bragging if it’s true _ , Gothmog thinks, just a teensy bit smugly,  _ and mine is probably the thickest you’ve seen, sweetcheeks.  _

Sliding up and down that crack, feeling the head of him catch lightly on the rim of that eager hole being presented so prettily for him, Gothmog strokes Maeglin slowly, his tongue mimicking what he’d like to do to Maeglin’s hole, stealing his breath in a series of teasing deep kisses.

Maeglin’s quick to tilt his hips into that touch – maybe almost too quick – loving the way the smooth skin of his member catches in the giant’s grasp, his foreskin pulling back over the head of his cock. Oddly enough, he’s not feeling inadequate compared to that monster the other sports. What would be the point anyway? There can’t be many cocks that big around. And Maeglin does want that –  _ oh, does he want that _ . It’s pretty much the live version of his favourite toy and attached to this sexy guy on top of that.

Maybe he’s lucked out for once. At least he dares to hope.

“What’s the point of a slice of bread when you can get the whole loaf?” Maeglin murmurs, nipping back at the coach’s lips. The lube bottle blinks in and out of his peripheral vision, and he reaches for it, fumbling a little and feels Gothmog smirk into his mouth. 

_ Eager, yes…  _ Gothmog hums to himself. Releasing the nipple he has turned bright red and probably somewhat painful, he switches his grip on Maeglin’s cock and turns his wicked fingers to the task of making the other one match.  _ Being ambidextrous is so useful _ .

Maeglin can feel Gothmog grinning and suppresses an urge to bite him as the pressure on his chest and cock momentarily disappears. His neglected nipple is pinched lightly and then his cock is claimed again. Clutching the bottle of lube hard, Maeglin throws his head back to groan, breathing hard to compose himself enough for words.

“You – you like to be thorough, huh?”  _ fuck this, give it to me, you want it anyway, no need to be this courteous. _

“Thorough, hmm?” Gothmog purrs, kissing those tempting lips – he can’t seem to get enough of Maeglin’s mouth, hesitant and soft, yet bold and wanting at the same time.  _  Oh I’m going to enjoy making you mine. _ “Should I not be?”

Kissing his way back down Maeglin’s neck, his beard dragging lightly against that tender skin, he revels in the whine of protest. 

Catching up Maeglin’s free hand, he holds it up. “Suck on these if you need something to fill your mouth,” he orders, licking water off Maeglin’s shoulder and returning his own hand momentarily to that tempting nipple as he kisses down his bowing spine, giving the round arse cheek a nip as a he kneels, sucking a pleasing mark into the soft skin. “But you don’t  _ have _ to be silent.”  _ Moan for me, pretty _ .

Maeglin doesn’t know what he expected, but it was certainly not  _ this _ . Who even eats out a quick fling?  _ In a fucking gym shower? _ Not that Maeglin will complain much… or he might,  _ a little _ ; he wants to fuck, he’s in the mood to  _ fuck.  _

Tucking his fingers into his mouth –  willing to please the guy in turn with a bit of fantasy – he promptly bites himself when Gothmog nips his bum.

“Ah,  _ fucker _ ,” he curses, dropping his hand to the small ledge where he’d put his shampoo, but his body says  _ bite me again _ , the hint crystal clear in the way he pushes back against Gothmog’s mouth. The thud of plastic hitting the wet floor hardly registers, and he clutches the slippery tiles, steadying himself even as he parts his legs further, showing himself off in the lewdest way he knows.

Leaning in, Gothmog runs his nose slowly down into the valley of Maeglin’s arse, the tip of his tongue just flicking out as he passes his hole, nuzzling into that soft skin. Maeglin does not disappoint, gripping the ledge in front of him and thrusting his arse out further, a low curse ringing against the tiles.

Maeglin’s curses are inventive; he is particularly loud when Gothmog nibbles gently on the rim fluttering against his tongue in passing, though the wordless shouts and the way he pushes his arse back when Gothmog bites the crease between his buttock and thigh is enough to make him close his eyes for a moment, savouring the satisfaction coursing through his system. 

Strong long licks interspersed with small suckling kisses – not enough to leave real marks, just enough to heighten Maeglin’s anticipation – exploring Maeglin’s preferences as he moves slowly towards the main event. Gothmog likes to tease, a little, running his free hand all over that tempting curve, so tight he knows this was the right choice for more than one reason. 

Gothmog smiles. 

_ “Gothmog! _ ” Maeglin keens. “You… ahh, you don’t have to- _ Oh! _ ”

At first, Gothmog simply hears the words without understanding, too filled with satisfaction at the way Maeglin groans his name and the feel of his arse clenching in pleasure when he draws back to tickle the rim of his hole.  _ Oh, my sweet one… I  _ **_want_ ** _ to. _

Laving Maeglin’s taint, enjoying the slightly musky taste of the sweat he has not yet sluiced off, Gothmog takes a moment to press his tongue hard against that spot, feeling the cock in his hand jump.  _ I love it when they’re surprised by how good it feels.  _ Maeglin’s balls are shaved, too, and when he spreads his legs further, Gothmog draws one and then the other into his mouth, sucking in alternate rhythm with his fist, his nose still pressing against Maeglin’s perineum and eliciting whimpered pleas from above. Maeglin clutches the ledge with a white-knuckled grip, his legs trembling. The water running down his skin steals the real taste of him a little, and gets in Gothmog’s eyes besides, and still it’s one of the most enjoyable ways he has performed this act. 

Maeglin squeezes his eyes shut as the hot slick tongue runs over his balls, tickling. He doesn’t routinely focus on those when he pleasures himself, however imaginative he is, and it’s surprisingly nice to have them sucked and kissed. Gothmog’s still handling his cock, pulling at it slowly and somewhat carefully – it suddenly occurs to Maeglin that the ginger hasn’t really asked for anything yet.

_ Usually _ , they’re asking by now. Sometimes, they are  _ finished  _ by now.

“What..ah.. what do you want?” he pants, knowing there must be something. No one gets off just on pleasuring others, after all.

_ Not to worry, sweet one, I’ll take you good and proper, _ Gothmog promises silently, letting Maeglin’s balls fall from his mouth and licking his way back up, pursing his lips around Maeglin’s hole and sucking hard.

The resultant expletive makes him grin, feeling the stiff cock between his legs bob in anticipation. 

_ That  _ **_beard_ ** _!  _ Even in his own mind, Maeglin can’t keep a coherent thought longer than it takes to simultaneously curse and bless the feel of Gothmog’s softly furred cheeks pressed into his arse. Combining with the way that wicked tongue is playing his every nerve ending the thought fizzles out before he can finish it.

Pushing back his hips, Maeglin tries to relax his arse under that delicious assault, wanting to lure that tongue  _ deeper _ . Gothmog isn’t hurrying, though; it’s infuriating and awesome at the same time. Maeglin’s hole twitches just as the warm mouth travels to it and  _ sucks _ , drawing a surprised aroused shout from him, making him grip the ledge hard with both hands. It’s not far that he’d come there and now, spurt over those thick fingers like a trigger-happy teen. Maeglin flushes, and not just from the hot water. He lets go of the ledge with one hand, brings it down over the one working up and down his length to show him what he enjoys most.

“Gonna make you cum on my tongue,” Gothmog tells him, pulling back for a moment before returning to his task with alacrity, feeling Maeglin’s legs quiver as his grip on the ledge tightens. Ignoring the thick throbbing in his groin, Gothmog dives between those firm globes, seeking out every twitch and whimper he can wring from his captive, one thick forearm being squeezed by Maeglin’s strong thighs – a promising sign – as his hand works that pretty cock in long slow strokes, grip a little firmer than before. “Then I’m going to stuff your greedy little arse hard… and  _ then  _ I’m going to take you home and have you ride me until you  _ scream _ .”

Or at least, Gothmog hopes Maeglin would be game for that; Glorfindel isn’t the only one going through a bit of a dry spell these days. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that he truly loves this act, no matter how depraved some of his former lovers called it. Maeglin, at least, seems to find merit in the skill of his tongue, and Gothmog increases his efforts to bring him over the edge, feeling his thighs quiver under the strain of remaining standing.

“Yeah, sure,” Maeglin manages, unsure if he should lock his knees, or whether that would just make him slip over the edge for certain. “Yeah, man,” he pants, trying to hold back, “take me home.”

It’s not like Maeglin to make promises. It’s not often he finds people worth them. He doesn’t even know how he’ll feel about this guy in ten minutes. But none of that matters right now. The man’s kissing and licking Maeglin’s arse as if it was his mouth. As if it wasn’t a prelude to something else, but an act done simply for pleasure’s sake.

“Hey,” Maeglin pants, moaning wantonly between words, “Lavalocks. You want me to blow you or something?” 

Vaguely, Maeglin wonders if he’s getting friction burn from that beard – _glorious beard –_  but he can’t summon enough focus for thinking, another whimpered plea escaping instead – _damn, I sound like a mess already. And I don’t even care._ _I just want to come._ Caressing that stubborn hand, dragging his nails over the tendons at the back of it, Maeglin’s breaths come out in soft puffs of sheer _need_. _Please let me come._ Tickling the rim of Maeglin’s hole with his tongue, Gothmog is thorough but slow. _Please never fucking_ ** _stop_** _. “Please…”_

Those long fingers scrabbling over the back of his hand give Gothmog pause, but the broken pants coming from Maeglin and the almost desperate way he pets the hand giving him pleasure makes him continue, speeding up his movements slightly.

Maeglin squeaks, unable to stop the words from pouring out. “Yo- _ u _ want to fuck me? Ah-ah-Ye- _ ah! _ – you want to fu- _ uck _ me.” 

It’s been a good while since Gothmog’s had a chance to do this with someone as responsive as Maeglin and he is determined to leave him a shivering cum-soaked mess before he finally fucks that perfect arse. 

“Come  _ on _ ,” Maeglin pants, his hips moving rapidly, pushing his cock into Gothmog’s fist only to thrust back onto his tongue in the next move. “I-I can take it.”

Setting to work with determination, one hand continuing to stroke Maeglin higher, Gothmog snatches up the fallen bottle of lube, feeling a deep sense of amusement and satisfaction that Maeglin had brought it along in the first place.

Smirking into Maeglin’s loosened hole, Gothmog repeats his nibble-and-suck combo, thrusting his tongue through the ring of muscle as a promise of things yet to come. Slicking his cock one-handed is a bit awkward, but Gothmog manages, trying to leave himself alone rather than wank off to the sound of Maeglin’s pleasure; he still hopes to be allowed to fuck him – even if he might not have chosen the showers at the  _ gym  _ for such play. 

It might not have been his most well-planned seduction, granted, but if Maeglin  _ wants  _ to be fucked in the shower, who is Gothmog to tell him no?

He still wants to see him on the blue sheets of his bed, face down and arse up, that soft pink hole beckoning him forwards, but his size has forced him to learn patience; pain is not the intention.

_ You’re too fucking good at this,  _ Maeglin thinks, keening desperately. The amount of self-restraint he’s exerting is almost painful. Fuck – when he’s alone again Maeglin needs to reconsider his standards. If it can be like this, then why the fuck should he settle for less. He’s got the self-respect for that. He’s got…

“…othmog…” _What do you..._ _Will you_ ** _finally_** _give me that cock if I come?_

It feels like the inevitable end to a giant build-up. And still the orgasm comes out of nowhere, hitting him with the force of a freight train, hot and violent enough to make his knees buckle , feet slipping on the floor. 

Maeglin almost wonders if Gothmog has punched him again – the stars are there.  _ Fucking stars _ … When the world stops spinning, he peeks from beneath the shelter of his arms, his dark eyes glossy and a little unfocused.

He leans his head against the tiles, breathing hard, chest heaving, and watches the water flush away his pearly seed, Gothmog’s tongue still doing unspeakably lovely things, gliding over his skin without rhyme or reason. 

Gothmog kisses his way across Maeglin’s buttock, feeling the shadow of old scars against his tongue as he waits for the trembles to stop completely, letting go of Maeglin’s spent cock with one last caress. Maeglin’s nails have made small crescent marks on the back of his hand that make him feel curiously proud of the guy.

Wincing at the feel of the tiles against his knees he falls back on his heels, drawing Maeglin down by the hips – not difficult, he's not exactly steady – until he is sitting in Gothmog’s lap, the water still warm as it runs down Maeglin’s chest. It’s a little odd to be handled like this, but Maeglin welcomes the thick arms as they pull him close, and – still addled with satisfaction as he is – winds his own behind the strong neck, weaving his wet fingers into the soft mane. The position helps him arch his back, hopefully becomingly, and the magnificent thighs certainly make a nice seat to rub his sloppy bottom on. The thick feel cradled between his buttocks causes his spent prick to give an optimistic twitch, and he moans at the sensation, skin pebbling along his arms. It’s not every day that Maeglin feels like this. That’s worth savouring, yes, but the ginger-beard doesn’t seem to be all that comfortable on the floor like this – and truthfully, neither does he. Still, to suggest moving somewhere else would break this fine spell.

Something tells Gothmog to go slow, to ignore Maeglin’s panted offer – this kind of strong sexual attraction is rare for him and thinking about Maeglin’s comment makes it feel… lessened – like a transaction; something purchased and paid for. 

“Trust me, Maeglin,” it's only the second time he says – purrs, really – that name, “I enjoyed that  _ very much _ .” Gothmog is still hard enough to find it almost painful, but somehow tracing nonsensical patterns across Maeglin’s chest and listening to his shaky breaths as he calms down from his high is enough to make him ignore his earlier plan.  _ Oh, sweet one. I could become addicted to your breathy moans _ , he thinks,  kissing along Maeglin’s shoulder, planting lines of soft playful kisses on that smooth porcelain skin. 

The next move has to be Maeglin’s, if he  _ wants  _ to take it further. 

 

The lube isn’t where Maeglin thought he had dropped it; in fact, it stands on its stopper not far from them, a dollop decorating the lip, and the rod slipping between Maeglin’s cheeks is indeed  _ slippery _ .

He needs to do little self-convincing after that – he has something to prove, after all, and he’s quite ready enough for that.

“I like it when you say my name,” Maeglin murmurs, his voice hitching only a little as Gothmog’s lips find a good spot at the junction of his shoulder and neck. “Let’s see if giving your mouth no duty would let me hear it again.”

It’s almost a mistake to turn to look at the other – there’s way too much adoration in those warm eyes for them to have known each other an hour or something as ridiculous, and Maeglin finds himself leaning into a kiss, attempting to show a little gratitude. He rarely has reason for it; in all honesty, he usually prefers to keep it that way, but it doesn’t matter so much now.

Then he turns in the other’s arms, places a splayed hand over the tattooed chest, and pushes  _ just so _ as a wicked glint passes through his gaze. The man is big. Maeglin finds it’d be fun to have him look up at him.

“You have a thing for cowboys, old man? Fancy a ride?”

Gothmog can’t help the chuckle rumbling through him; Maeglin is good at faking confidence, yes, but he’s looking a little apprehensive at the ‘task’ he has set himself.

“Mmmm I did promise to make you scream my name, didn’t I, cow _ boy _ ?” he purrs, running his broad palm up that creamy thigh and squeezing a nice handful of arse. He’s not disappointed by the fire flashing in those dark eyes at his taunt.

_ Damn those hips are just perfect to sit on... _

Maeglin runs his hands along the strong muscles of Gothmog’s chest, tracing a few of the stark lines of ink that decorate his right pectoral with a stylized tree and run up his shoulder in a flurry of black birds. Trailing touches back down Gothmog’s stomach, down to the intimidating tool rising from the red tuft of hair, Maeglin looks at it for a moment, finally properly able to, and gives it a good squeeze. 

_ How exactly do those piercings even work? _

He wishes to test the capacity of his mouth on that, too, but even more so needs to get this show back on the road – so he reaches for the lube, unstopping it to pour a big blob over his hand. With a long, heated look he takes his fingers to his backside, slipping in two with little ceremony… His cock, well-conditioned for this particular act, fills a little further, brushing gamely alongside Gothmog’s.

Watching Maeglin’s fingers disappear into himself is messing with Gothmog’s self-control; that slick soft tightness he can still taste on his tongue accepts them so readily it only makes him want to watch that pink rim stretch around his thick tool more desperately.

It’s not quite enough to make him forget how uncomfortable the wet tiles are to lie on, however.

“I think…” he says, swallowing a bit of saliva and half a groan when Maeglin’s free hand begins exploring him tentatively, his fingers running lightly over the steel ridges and balls that decorate the underside of Gothmog’s cock. The pleasure of the bars pressing against his glans is intense –  _ Fuck, have you never met this type of jewellery before? Oh, darling –  _ Gothmog moans, closing his eyes for a moment. 

_ The way his hand looks… gods, it’s been too long since I’ve been this horny for a man – for anyone _ .

His cock twitches eagerly, a bead of pre-come rolling down to where Maeglin’s fingers are still wrapped around him.

Just watching that hand struggle to fit around him is turning him on more than he expected and for a moment he feels somewhat worried that when he finally gets  _ inside _ Maeglin it’ll be over far too quickly.

_ Fuck, fuck, imagine the way he moans when he’s stuffed hard…  _

Maeglin’s smirk has a wicked edge to it that Gothmog needs to taste, pushing up off the floor to cup his face in one hand, stealing the smirk in a kiss while his other hand is busy acquainting itself with the curve of Maeglin’s bruised arse.

Maeglin’s all for riding the giant on the floor while the water sprays and creates its rushing thud of a song, and Gothmog seems eager enough to play his role in this – though the moment of hesitation and uncomfortable expression before the cut-off words isn’t lost on Maeglin. He doesn’t like that. Maybe the floor isn’t such a clever idea after all – the realisation momentarily shrivels to nothing as Gothmog rises up to cup Maeglin’s face, seemingly taking true pleasure in a kiss.

_ It’s nice. It’s good to be reminded of that. It’s good to be kissed. _

Gothmog pulls back slightly, satisfied by the lust-blown look in Maeglin’s eyes and the thin strand of saliva that hangs between them, quivering with their panted breaths.

Maeglin is almost hard, writhing beautifully on his own fingers when Gothmog leans in once more, gentling the exploration of his mouth slightly.

“I think we should take this off the floor…” he rumbles, resting his forehead against Maeglin’s and bringing his hand down to wrap around the twin to the handful he’d already claimed, “ _ Maeglin _ .”  _ Especially if I’m going to make good on all my promises tonight. _

Maeglin rubs his thumb over the fleshy head, revelling at the span of smooth, hot skin, and leans into Gothmog’s touch, knees pressing into the man’s sides as he pushes himself up a little to then sink deep over his fingers, a soft groan escaping him.

He  _ thinks _ he can take  _ it _ . But Gothmog might do better off the tiles.  _ Let’s give the old man that. _ Even if it’s just for saying his name with such warm sweetness.

“Yeah,” he murmurs back, glancing over the handsome and slightly flushed face, taking in the ocean blue eyes and lips he’s kissed plump and red, “Yeah, okay. Come on.”

He pushes himself up, feeling the loss of soft skin and hard muscle keenly, and turns the tap off. The room is suddenly silent but for a trickle of water and some other noises further away, only serving to make Maeglin more aware of the rush of blood in his own veins.

It’s cool now that the water’s off, and Maeglin doesn’t want to feel cold for long. He offers his hand to pull his would-be lover up, and leads him to the locker room entrance, turning to steal another swift kiss before pushing the door open.

Chilly air greets him, but luckily nothing and no-one else. Maeglin grabs the first towel he sees and manages to somewhat spread it over the bench. Gothmog’s presence is huge and warm, right there, and Maeglin turns to him just to push at him again –  _ look at the way my hand looks against that chest – _ hoping this will be more suitable for the old bones. Maeglin doesn’t think he’ll be able to relocate again. His arse agrees.

“Good, huh?” he asks, his voice a little strained as he retakes his position over Gothmog’s hips, biting his plush lip almost up to the point of tasting blood.  _ Fucking finally – please please –  _ “You going to let me have it, Lavalocks?”

The Cock brushes his thigh, big and solid and delicious, and Maeglin grasps it, thumbing at the little ball of metal he finds, rolling the pad of his finger over the solid nub.

“Are these for me?”

Gothmog catches his wrist, stilling those curious fingers – too good and another time he should let him play to his heart’s content – and leans in slightly to nip at Maeglin’s kiss-swollen lips, dark like sweet wine and twice as heady.

“A bit of both,” he offers, pressing gently against Maeglin’s lower back to move him closer, desperation and curiosity mingling in his mind – it’s been a while since he’s had a new lover, and he wonders how Maeglin will take him, if his natural impatience will rush him.

_ You’re a bossy one, my pretty. _

Watching those dark eyes intently, he guides Maeglin downwards, keeping himself steady by wrapping his fist around Maeglin’s.

The loosened rim of Maeglin’s hole stretches beautifully around his head – Gothmog moves his fingers slightly to avoid jarring him with the piercings; they can be  _ very _ fun, but take some skill to maneuver – which was why he offered to fuck Maeglin first.

“Come on, old man,” Maeglin jeers, though the snark fades when Gothmog grins, moving his hand away from his cock to grip Maeglin’s arse again. 

It’s a good thing Maeglin plays with his arse extensively, and at least weekly – he knows himself and his limits quite well, and the hint of apprehension he feels at the first slow push melts alongside with his hole as he forces himself lax, then pushes a little with his muscles to help Gothmog get in. The man takes his time, working his fingers alongside with his rod, and Maeglin realises he’s fiddling with the barbells attached to his flesh. 

One long finger teases his stretching hole as Gothmog forces him down in one slow steady push that makes Maeglin’s eyes widen and his mouth fall slack.Taking his time like this… Maeglin wants to curse, his hole forced around the fat head, gripping tight,  _ oh too tight _ – he just wants to get it in, for fuck’s sake, pierce him like it’s meant to –  _ “Oh, shit!” _ His cock twitches erratically, painting a stripe of pre-come across Gothmog’s navel.

And then it’s in, with Gothmog’s strong hands clutching Maeglin’s bruised buttocks, and Maeglin can barely see his face from the way he blacks out for half a second, as if his whole being was focused around the firebrand spearing him like a fucking club. It’s such a tight fit he can’t even feel lube drip out – he wonders if he can feel his legs, either, though it’s not something Maeglin can make himself concerned with right now.

Catching those darkened lips in another bruising kiss, Gothmog lifts him slightly before pushing back in, that velvety warmth surrounding him in bliss. 

It’s not just that it’s bigger than reasonable – it’s that it’s hot and real and attached to powerful hips, hips which thrust up into him with luxurious ease, and Maeglin feels safe enough to let Gothmog have it, bringing his hands up to the muscular chest instead, scraping his nails over the decorated nipples. They look delectable, and Maeglin’s mouth waters at the sight, wondering if he could somehow reach them with the way they are joined – but then Gothmog’s lips are once again on his, hard action coupled with soft skin and the brush of slightly ticklish moustache. The kiss tastes a little earthy, of Maeglin’s sweat and certainly also a little of his ass, but if it doesn’t put Gothmog off then it surely doesn’t do that to Maeglin. He blindly fumbles for a hold of that still-damp skin, finally managing to sink his fingers into Gothmog’s shoulders, and devours him back all competitive.

 

Pinpricks run along Maeglin’s spine when Gothmog pulls almost out of him and then slides back in, fullness pushing inarticulate sounds out from Maeglin’s lips. His prick twitches between them as if panicked, droplets pushing each other out of the way, and had he the wherewithal he would grasp it, give himself some much-needed stimulation to counter that almost insufferable, magnificent pressure threatening to burst his ass.

_ It’s everything I wanted. _

To show off – he’s not afraid to admit that – Gothmog does the lift-and-drop a few more times, filling his ears with Maeglin’s moans when he bumps against his prostate. Maeglin isn’t too heavy – he’s sinewy but, aside from that pert arse filling Gothmog’s hands to perfection, not what anyone would consider padded – and Gothmog chuckles into his mouth when he whines, his hands landing on Gothmog’s chest, scrabbling for purchase.

“Old man, hmm?” Gothmog growls, leaning in close to feel the way Maeglin shivers at the lustful rumble. “Is that a challenge, lad?” he asks, nipping a tempting earlobe.

The next time Gothmog lifts him, he keeps his head inside that clenching hole and Maeglin’s mind scrambled in a kiss that makes him unaware they’ve moved until his back meets the cold wall, forcing a gasp of surprise from his lungs.

Maeglin gasps, drawing deep red lines into Gothmog’s shoulders in half-formed panic.

“You’re a pushy little bottom,” he growls, though it’s playful, and brings the powers of his thick thighs to bear, spearing into Maeglin, “but I like that.” 

He’s filled to perfection, arse clenching around Gothmog’s prick like a vice, and he cries out when it stabs against his prostate and then slides over it like a road-roller. It’s merciless –  _ perfect _ – and for a moment Maeglin’s not even sure if he just received one of his most painful dry orgasms or if his brain just messed up somehow – how can that possibly feel this pleasurable?

_ How can it not? _

He can only hold on, wrap his arms around Gothmog’s shoulders and clutch at his hips and buttocks with his legs while he tries not to lose himself too soon.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Maeglin keens, overcome even as his muscles loosen further under the assault, rewarding them with the squelchy wet sound of flesh and lube, and then it’s both easier and harder – it’s like Gothmog’s just started, and Maeglin’s already losing his stupid mind.

Considerately –  _ or maybe I just like hearing you moan into my ear _ – Gothmog turns his mouth to the job of rediscovering the spot on Maeglin’s neck that had made him keen beneath the water, his hips fucking into that perfect tightness while his hands squeeze Maeglin’s arse in rhythm.

Gothmog’s lips add to Maeglin’s madness, and Maeglin – the son of Eöl, who learned stoicism in the fucking  _ cradle _ – squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on surviving somehow as his poor cock twitches, ruddy with blood, drooling over his belly in messy patterns. He thinks he can feel the bits of metal inside him, too – somehow, the thought makes it  _ even more arousing _ , and –

“Gothmog, I – I will – I’m going to – ”

_ Does he think I’m going to stop him? _

With the wall and Maeglin’s vice-like grip on his thighs to help, Gothmog lets go of one meaty buttock, lamenting the loss only for as long as it takes him to grasp that perfect slender prick in his fist, stroking Maeglin higher as he tries to aim for his prostate with  _ every  _ stroke instead of every third. 

Fingers white, Maeglin digs into the muscled back, drawing red lines, panting in his bliss-torture-pain – and cries out as his worn, mushy arse clamps down tight around the impossible pole Maeglin can feel rearranging his insides, carving itself a path in his yielding flesh.

The grasp on his painfully hard prick registers like a thunderclap, jolting Maeglin around the plump prick keeping him wide open. He moans brokenly, risking a look down to see how the perfection he feels within translates visually. The sight is too fucking erotic for him to willingly look away again, and he only does it when his body makes that decision for him, spiking pleasure laced with otherworldly tension running through him and causing his head to thud against the wall, adding a couple of more stars in his field of vision.

“Fuck you’re tight!” Beautifully so, soft and perfectly sloppy. “I’m gonna fill you up –  _ make you mine! _ – then I’m gonna fuck it out of you!” He must play with himself – or get fucked, a thought that makes Gothmog growl, suddenly determined to be the best Maeglin’s ever had – regularly or that greedy little arse wouldn’t be able to swallow him so well. 

_ Tight? That’s a new one. _

Still, the words have the desired effect, Gothmog’s pleasure validating the blissful ruckus inside of Maeglin, and he moans in answer, calves and thighs flexing with effort to press the powerful body closer.

A part of him wants to snarl, taunt the man to take him harder, throw an insult to spice things up a bit – it’s his fear talking, the one which sometimes rears its ugly head.  _ You don’t want to like them too much. Nothing good comes out of that. _ But he doesn’t say what he usually does – somehow, he doesn’t want to.

“Yeah-h, give it to me, harder – fuck, yes…”

“Greedy wee arse… this is what you need, isn’t it, Princess?” Maeglin doesn’t answer with anything approaching coherency, but it doesn’t matter; his arse does it for him. 

Moans turning more high-pitched with each thrust ramming into him, Maeglin tries to squeeze back, be that tight hole he was praised for, but he controls his body little this way and fails as the repeated hits his already sensitive prostate takes cause him to convulse on his own. The deft hand is doing its own magic to unravel him; had Maeglin the brain power needed, he’d be really impressed by the way Gothmog is managing this. When he inevitably lets go, Maeglin recovers a tiny bit of himself, just enough to come up with a few words.

“’m greedy,” he agrees, the word turning into a withering keen as he feels himself tighten once more, the sloppy mess his arse has become eating up the hard length with singular fervour.

Moving his hips in a nearly cyclic motion while working Maeglin’s cock at the same time isn’t easy, the necessary focus staving off his own orgasm just a little longer. 

Not for long, though. Maeglin’s arse clenching, warm and tight around him – if it was possible for it to get any tighter, that is – squeezes him in a rhythm that makes him go cross-eyed with pleasure, letting go of Maeglin’s cock for fear of hurting him. 

“Fuck- You’re so fucking tight – !” Trailing off into a rough litany of whimpered praise, Gothmog keeps up the nearly brutal pace – he is and isn’t ready for this to end soon.  

“C-come in my greedy, slutty hole.” Maeglin’s fingers, so curiously explorative at first, become claws raking over his shoulders, the slight pain of the scratches only heightening the intensity of Gothmog’s pleasure; he likes a little pain that way.

“Come for me, Princess,” he growls, flicking his thumb over the copiously weeping head. “ _ Show me. _ ”

Maeglin’s wail of completion nearly hurts his ears – the initial splash of his come hits him in the chin and then smears the space between them in a wanton display of beautiful pleasure. Each of his pants carry a sound, each whimper more ragged than the previous one, echoing in the room.

Gothmog knows he can’t last, leaning his forehead against the wall over Maeglin’s shoulder and returning his hand to that perfect arse, gripping Maeglin’s slim hips tightly. Fucking him with something approaching desperation, he chases his own completion, feeling Maeglin quiver in aftershocks with each thrust. 

Maeglin’s unsure if he blacked out for a second in the embrace of a proper little death, but the weight and pressure against him is welcoming and equally welcomed as he comes back to himself, arse milking at the stiff tool still pounding away at him. He almost wants to weep how good it is. The glorious pain at having his hole plundered after his release puts life back to him even as his energy drains, the heaviness in his limbs threatening to cause him to fall, should Gothmog allow it.

He doesn’t.

Maeglin loops his arms around the strong shoulders, presses his nose close to the fragrant, wavy hair. Licking a wet stripe up the cool cartilage between breathy moans, savouring the scent and taste of his shower room champion, he tries not to whimper too loudly before Gothmog is done.

Not that he’s in any hurry to climb off that treasure.

Yet when Gothmog comes, it’s as magnificent and beautiful as anything he’s done, the twitch of his cock inside Maeglin injecting him with a fresh wave of euphoria that cuts through any discomfort he might be in. He answers with a possessive growl, squeezing the prick as good as he can, and fists his hand in the lush red hair. A primal instinct causes him to hold on tighter – firmer – despite how heavy his body feels and how light his head feels.

Eventually Maeglin tugs at the fistful of locks and turns Gothmog’s face towards him – it’s hard not to feel the warmth of adoration after such a ride, and Maeglin swallows thickly around the lump of emotion in his moaned-raw throat, his eyes nearly hidden by half-lowered eyelids.

He leans in, rubs his mouth over the hairy chin and slightly prickly moustache before parting his lips in a kiss, sweet and messy, his tongue still too thick for dexterity.

Something inside his chest flutters, and Maeglin doubts it’s just the splendour of afterglow.  _ What hope do I really have when you look like  _ **_this_ ** _ after fucking me into the wall? _ Gothmog is  _ beautiful  _ in his own rough way, and even more so in manners Maeglin is nearly terrified to explore. Instead, he smiles against Gothmog’s lips, revealing his teeth in a devilish grin. “You didn’t pull your punches this round.” There’s at least a little of his spunk clinging to the red beard. 

Gothmog’s laugh is a winded broken thing, leaving his mouth between soft half-kisses. “Well, you seemed to find your ‘centre of gravity’,” he jokes, hardly able to get the words out for catching his breath. “Or perhaps I found it for you…” 

Kissing along Maeglin’s pouty lower lip, Gothmog nibbles the length of his jaw, catching his earlobe in a small kiss. Tugging gently, he breathes slowly, pulling out slowly, enjoying the  tight sheath gripping his almost over-sensitive cock. 

“Look at the mess you made…” he whispers, rubbing his hairy chest against Maeglin’s smooth one, smearing cum between them and feeling his own drip out of Maeglin to splatter on the floor.

Caressing Maeglin’s buttocks slowly, rubbing down his thighs, Gothmog helps him unwrap his legs, massaging each limb until Maeglin stops wincing when he puts it down. He is still holding him up, leaning them both heavily against the wall; his own legs are less than steady, but Gothmog can’t think of that in this moment, his hands filled with Maeglin’s arse once more, their cocks rubbing softly against each other. 

_Peace_ , he thinks, _that’s what this feeling is..._ _Peace_. 

He’s ignoring the spunk matting in his wet chest hair, enjoying the feeling of Maeglin being soft and pliant in his arms – it won’t last, the man’s got fire in him, but Gothmog is determined to show him affection as long as he is allowed – mellow in afterglow. 

Nuzzling gently into Maeglin’s neck one last time, he draws back a little, those dark eyes taking his breath away when he catches Maeglin’s gaze, filled with soft pleasure not yet hidden behind the walls he knows the guy has, now that he can think beyond his own need and consider the things Maeglin said…  _ expected _ . 

It hurts – unexpected but real – to realise that Maeglin expected violence where none should be,  _ expected  _ him to make demands, to use force… Letting go of Maeglin’s hips, Gothmog does not want to look, in case he’s left bruises on that pale skin beyond the few punches in the ring. 

The contrast between Gothmog who fucks like a beast and Gothmog who takes care of his partner after a vigorous session is like night and day, and yet somehow… it’s not. Maeglin can feel that in the way he massages blood to flow back into his limbs supporting him between his body and the wall that this man doesn’t like leaving things half-way done. Well, not like Maeglin hadn’t realised that already, the way his body pulses with the pleasure of afterglow, the pain of his backside subsiding to a throb, how he feels like his soul’s been put back into his body after being taken on a galactic-fucking- _ ride _ .

He pushes away from the wall, stretching gingerly – he’s got a bit of a friction-burn in his back, but nothing too bad even if he’s sure as hell going to remember this day tomorrow.

Hiding the hurt he feels by turning his head and drawing away slowly, Gothmog turns to his own bag, bending to pull out his towel and shower kit, feeling his own shoulders twinge with a lick of pleasurable pain when he rolls them. 

“Feel free to join me in the shower,” he offers softly, no longer certain it was wise of him to offer Maeglin more than this encounter – he likes him too much already – but unable to stop himself wanting  _ more _ . 

Had Maeglin not been welcomed to join, he would have wondered, though. The look Gothmog gave him was a little bit too sad to belong to someone who’s just got a good lay under his belt.

_ You didn’t seem hesitant a moment ago, ginger-beard. _

Pushing the door to the showers open and letting it swing shut behind him, he turns the tap back on and steps under the spray. Letting the water beat down on his chest while he lathers up his hair, Gothmog tries not to listen for Maeglin’s steps. 

The water runs, Maeglin can hear that – a tiny voice, the one which is almost always there, asks him if this is in any way smart, but Maeglin already knows that he’s not smart. He can have a little adventure, especially one this satisfying.

_ It doesn’t have to mean more than that. _

_ Maybe the guy just wants a shower. Someone to wash his back. _

_ Well, there’s only one way to find out. _

Soundlessly, he opens the shower room door and slips in, humidity hitting him in the face after the slight chill of the locker room. They’ve almost managed to turn the place into a steam room.

Feet quiet on the tiles, Maeglin sneaks into the corner they had abandoned, his eyes travelling appreciatively up and down the muscular form – the lines he’s left on the broad shoulders and back are impressive as well, and, while a hint of shame pricks Maeglin at the sight, arousal finds its way back to his loins.

He steps closer in the same way Gothmog did earlier, his hands rising up to massage shampoo into the thick, soft hair, the heat of the bulky body impossible to resist.

“Hey, Firebrand,” he whispers sultrily, scraping Gothmog’s scalp gently, “did you say you’d take me home?”

“I think there may have been mention of that possibility…” Gothmog rumbles, reaching for the soap and enjoying Maeglin’s slender fingers in his hair – sometimes he feels a strong kinship with his kitten, the sort of purring she does when he scratches her fur similar to the sound rumbling through his chest in this moment. “Think I offered you a ride that’d make you scream, kitten.” 

Turning around, he tugs Maeglin a little closer, running his soapy hands over the muscles of his chest, washing away the evidence of his second orgasm. 

“If you keep this up, I may have to throw in dinner, too,” he murmurs, dipping his head to steal a small kiss. When Maeglin’s fingers continue to run through his hair, he smiles against those delicate lips, rewarding him with another kiss and a small squeeze of that tempting backside.

When they’re both clean – and thoroughly kissed – Gothmog leads the way out of the showers, towelling his hair briskly as he moves towards his personal locker. Drying himself thoroughly, he pulls on a pair of soft grey boxers and thick tennis socks. 

“Seems the kitten has claws,” he murmurs, feeling the scratches on his shoulders twinge a little when he pulls the white t-shirt over his head. Moving past Maeglin, he picks up his discarded shorts, bundling them up along with the fluffy towel and stuffs the bundle into his bag, fishing out a bottle of water and taking a long pull.

“I took the bike to get here, by the way, hope you don’t mind. You?” 

“I… don’t mind.” The bicycle Maeglin chained to a lamppost in the parking lot is so old and dingy he doubts even the lowliest thief would care to snatch it. Or well – if that happens, he’ll just… walk. Everywhere.

Heading back to his locker with a nod, Gothmog unzips the calf gussets and slides his leather riding trousers slowly up his legs, the tight material wrapping around each limb like a second – armoured for safety – skin. He knows Maeglin is watching, the rustle of his own clothes halted for a moment. Re-zipping the trousers along his calves, he takes out his boots, pulling on one after the other and securing the many buckles with ease. Maeglin’s bound to be staring at his arse, Gothmog thinks, determined to give him a good view as he bends over, taking his time checking the fit properly. 

_ Damn, so this is the type of gay you are. Why am I even surprised. _

Maeglin feels his throat tighten at the sight of Gothmog shimmying into his black trousers, the leather creaking pleasantly as he shifts and moves. Maeglin thinks he might just get  _ a little bit hard _ again.

Then again, he’s dressing up in his threadbare thrift shop jeans, worn for comfort and not looks – though they hug his arse pretty well – sneakers which have seen their best days, and a black hoodie under the old jacket he doesn’t even remember where he got. At least he’s in a decently healthy condition now, filling out his attire well enough; he hopes that’s enough for Gothmog. 

Hopefully he won’t be spending too much time in his clothes tonight, anyway.

“I have a spare helmet lying around here, I’ll find it for you,” Gothmog promises, turning to give Maeglin a quick smile before ducking out of the locker room, satisfied by the smouldering lust in those dark eyes that his little show inspired. 

Checking the locks and the windows, Gothmog walks through the gym, nipping upstairs to check on the girl Idril set up there last week; the bruises on her face have yellowed, but the crying phase is finally over, and she’s quite chipper for a girl with a broken leg living under an assumed name – Gothmog never knows their real names – asking him only to arrange for some more books to be delivered tomorrow. Nodding agreement, Gothmog walks back down the stairs to the gym level, hearing the three locks and two deadbolts slide shut behind him. Anyone trying to get up here would need to go through the gym, but the extra locks and bolts are for peace of mind more than actual security.

The helmet had been left in his office – Thuri wore it last, coming from home and complaining all the way about having helmet hair when going shopping with her girlfriend – and Gothmog hums to himself, feeling a slight skip of happiness in his step at the thought of the man waiting for him – wondering how many different sounds he’ll be able to wring from Maeglin later.

“Here you are,” he says, a small smile on his lips as he opens the door to the locker room.

Maeglin accepts the helmet with a smile, trying it on his head – it smells like women’s perfume, he thinks, but refuses to cling into unpleasant thoughts.

“I suppose I don’t have to think of my mum telling me not to accept rides from strangers,” Maeglin says, depositing the helmet under his armpit and stuffing his beanie into his jacket pocket, “since we are already… acquainted.”

“Heh!” Gothmog barks out a surprised laugh, leaning in to steal a kiss – and pinches Maeglin’s perky bottom. “Perhaps we’ll get even better acquainted soon…” he mumbles. Zipping up his brown leather jacket, he pulls the gym bag onto his shoulder then reconsiders. “There isn’t much space, really; I haven’t got a sissy bar… want to just leave your stuff here and we can pick it up tomorrow?” Stuffing his bag into his locker, he holds the door open for Maeglin’s. 

“That’s cool. I won’t need them until next time.” Maeglin sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, savouring the taste of Gothmog’s mouth as the man ushers him forward, feeling his gaze tear clothes off his back as he walks – putting a bit of Extra into his walk for Gothmog’s entertainment. 

Locking up quickly, Gothmog lets Maeglin walk ahead towards the door, watching that luscious arse sway beneath the worn denim and feeling the stirring of lust begin to firm up his cock. “She’s out back, turn left,” he says, almost wishing he would be riding bitch, feeling Maeglin’s arse press against his front… but he doesn’t trust just anyone riding his baby, really, and definitely not an almost-stranger – no matter how tight his arse is. 

 

Maeglin stops, whistling low, seeing something which probably won’t mind his catcall.

He loves things with engines. He loves stuff which works as intended, results of long engineering evolution combined with shit which worked well one hundred years ago and still does its job today – he’s worked odd jobs at a junkyard, seen the whole possible scale from unfortunate wrecked sportscars and racing bikes to rusty mementos of decades past. But those – those were sad, disassembled things, corpses with no life in them.

This… this is  _ alive _ .

The gorgeous red Honda is like sex, shiny and big and dangerous, and Maeglin makes an involuntary little noise imagining himself on that, pressing low to feel the wind rush past him, the great power rumbling between his thighs.

He puts his hand on it, sees the humidity of his skin coalesce into a crescent before it disappears, leaving the red paint spotless.

“You are a bit of a cowboy yourself, riding a stallion like this,” Maeglin says, unable to keep the awe out of his voice – or the arousal.

Grinning, he leans over the saddle, feeling anticipation prick him as he offers himself in a pin-up pose, leaning against the monster like he belongs, fingers tracing one hand grip, all coquettish and playful. It’d be too much to admit how Gothmog’s bike turns him on and how his mind is suddenly filled with all sorts of dirty fantasies involving desert highways, leather and sweat, but it’s there and definitely making him twitch in his jeans.

“I was expecting a HD, maybe,” Maeglin purrs, smiling wickedly as he looks at Gothmog in turn – pleased. “But I prefer this. Style  _ and _ substance.”

Turning around, he sticks his backside out, letting his jacket and hoodie ride up his back to reveal a strip of white skin as he arches his back in an approximation of another classic pinup-pose.

“I trust you won’t drop me.”

“Believe me, darling, the only place I’m going to drop you is my bed,” Gothmog purrs, running an appreciative hand over the tight curve of Maeglin’s backside, pleased by the obvious admiration in his voice and the yearning in his eyes when he touches Rauca. 

Taking the helmet from Maeglin’s grip, he finds the cord that links it to the sound system, quietly pleased that he installed it – no matter how much it seemed like an indulgence for a toy meant only for him. 

Pulling on his leather gloves and swinging one leg over, he smiles. 

Grinning,Gothmog hands the full-faced helmet back to Maeglin, checking that it’s on properly.

“Get on – and hold tight.” 

Putting on his helmet feels nearly sensual, hiding the way he smirks from view behind the dark vizor, appreciating the slender muscles playing beneath Maeglin’s jeans as he moves – looking a little sore, which is only to be expected – swinging his leg over the seat of the bike. Pressing in tight against Gothmog’s bulk, Maeglin’s fingers are almost tentative on his waist but growing bolder. 

A couple sneak beneath the leather jacket to run over his stomach, pulling the tee away from his skin – he left the zipper that connects the trousers to the jacket for longer trips undone on purpose, pleased that Maeglin’s being playful – and tickling him lightly. 

Revving the engine, he feels that body tight against his back, Maeglin’s fingers foreign but pleasant, trailing slowly along his abs and scratching through the trail of hair that leads south from his navel, inspiring all kinds of thoughts that make steering require more focus. 

Purring away from the kerb, enjoying the powerful engine that has been tuned to the best of its capabilities, Gothmog sets off into the sunlit evening. 

_ I love the water this time of day. Such a nice view, and the little minx behind me only makes the journey home sweeter.  _

As he drives along, Gothmog considers food options _ – Should we go shopping… maybe takeaway? –  _ but the desire to feed Maeglin something  _ he _ made overpowers the rest of the possibilities. 

_ I hope he likes duck…  _


	2. Zest la Vie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which one of Gothmog's passions is revealed... and one of Maeglin's secrets come to light.

_This is heaven._

Wind whips at Maeglin’s pant-legs and pulls the tips of his hair out from under his jacket, licking his bare neck, but Gothmog’s body is a very good cover, broad and steady. Maeglin looks forward to appreciating it as is only right. The rumble of the engine soothes his bruised backside, occasionally reminding him of their previous activities with a twinge, but even that’s sweet. He presses close to Gothmog, warming his fingers beneath his shirt, studying the hard slopes of his musculature with teasing tenderness.

The mesmerising rhythm of travelling is so relaxing that it takes him a while to realise they’re crossing a bridge, driving through the red and gold of sunset into the clean beauty of the West Hill River District.

Maeglin’s only been here a few times – mostly doing things decent people wouldn't. Once he'd come here as a paid escort to a rich guy; the whole thing had been an unmitigated disaster, and the evening ended before he even got paid the other half of the agreed fee.

He's never really seen these buildings up close in daylight, even though he's familiar with the night-time skyline; sitting on the roof of his shabby apartment-building to watch the distant towers blink with their thousand lights and smoking a joint is a good way to relax and fantasise of better things. On such nights, the frequent sound of sirens in the streets below seem almost muted, their song some far-away dream that Maeglin can ignore.

Pulling himself out of his thoughts, Maeglin looks up at the shiny windows of the buildings around him, feeling the way the bike sways with each turn; Gothmog is completely at ease and clearly familiar with the route.

_Where are you taking me, Lavalocks?_

A hint of trepidation leeches through him, chilling him in an instant and unwittingly tightening his arms around Gothmog.

_Fuck, I should have asked. How stupid can you be, Maeglin?_

_There's no way a boxing coach can afford to live here._

Elms and oaks line the wide streets, their golden leaves creating dappled shadows across the well-maintained asphalt – the speed of the sleek Honda makes the dry fallen leaves dance in their wake, rushing up in the current until they settle down again.

And yet there's no hint of trepidation in the way Gothmog moves them through each street, turning with the confidence of a man entirely at home in his surroundings.

Maybe Gothmog _can_ afford to live here – it’s not like he'd have to own one of those mansions or tower apartments… right? There are plenty of rather normal-looking houses around here too, with less hefty price tags.

Maybe he's got family money or something – though clearly he's been smarter with his funds than Maeglin.

_So what? Having a fling with a well-off bachelor can’t hurt. It’d be new, at least._

“Admit it, you just want to play with his cock again,” he mumbles to himself, feeling desire and hesitation war in his body.

Turning right, feeling Maeglin’s arms squeeze his body, Gothmog smirks to himself – he’d been right, after all, and that’s always an ego boost – wondering if Maeglin meant for him to hear that snippet of thought.

“Well, I’m glad you liked it…” he answers casually, the microphone in his helmet bringing his voice to the speakers in Maeglin's. “And I promise you will… _later_.” Surprise stiffens the guy behind him, his arms tightening for a moment or two, and Gothmog tries not to chuckle. “You seemed surprised by the hardware – never seen a frenum ladder before, aye?” The arms around his waist are still tense, but Maeglin's voice is carefully composed when he replies.

“I've seen some weird things,” he admits, “but nothing like.. _that_.” Maeglin tries to sound nonchalant, failing only a little. “I sort of knew stuff like that exists but I thought it was some fetish thing.”

Gothmog’s smile widens. The guy really is all kinds of adorable. Part of him wants to turn around and blow him a kiss for his innocence.

“Fetish, hmm?” Gothmog teases, twisting the gas a touch higher, enjoying the feel of the purring engine between his legs and Maeglin's definite interest pressed against his arse. “I don’t think I’d call myself a piercing fetishist, per se…” he trails off. “The frenum ladder was…” _an impulse brought on by an old boyfriend and a dare_ “- a curiosity sated,” he finally settles on; it’s as much the truth as the full story. He’s grown more than fond of the small bits of metal that bring him such pleasure.

“Are we there soon?” Maeglin asks, seeming a little perturbed by his lack of experience.

“We’ll be at mine in five,” Gothmog offers, smiling to himself. _Home sweet home_.

In fact, he can see the building already. The design is rather unique – the building looks like a series of discs stacked somewhat haphazardly on top of one another – but Gothmog has grown fond of the wonky piece of architecture.

To him, it looks perfect.

To him, it looks like _home_.

Jacques, the doorman, is sitting at his desk with a magazine, visible through the large foyer windows. He glances up at the sound of the engine, nodding at them when he recognises the bike.

Nodding back at Jacques, Gothmog turns down the ramp to the underground parking structure, the plates on his bike automatically recognised by the system that makes the gates open wide just in time for them to pass through. The smooth operation makes him feel a warm ball of satisfaction in his stomach every time he comes home – he’d been right to take a chance on that engineering student’s design idea.

Maeglin probably doesn't realise Gothmog can hear his muttered reaction to the place – people rarely consider how sensitive the mics need to be to pick up voices over the sound of the engine, even if Gothmog is not the type to attempt a ‘disturbance of the peace’-charge with every ride – and for a moment he wonders if bringing Maeglin home was a good idea.

 _But you wanted to bring him home, show him a nice time… or more._ Gothmog scowls at the small voice in his head – it knows him far too well – but it’s the image of his blue sheets against Maeglin's creamy skin that proves too tantalizing to make him think twice. The small flat above the gym that he sometimes uses as a crash-pad for visiting friends might have been a better choice; at least, it might make Maeglin feel more at ease to delay the confrontation with their obvious difference in income status, but of course, it is currently occupied by the girl from Idril's women's shelter needing a safe place to stay.

Pushing those thoughts away – _nothing for it, old boy, just have to wing it_ – he parks the bike in its spot next to his beloved sportscar. Thuri calls it obnoxious and flashy, but she never says no to an oceanside drive in the red convertible.

“Home sweet home,” Gothmog says, waiting for Maeglin to dismount, “or parking garage, at least.” Gesturing towards the well lit and glass-framed area that usually holds a few of Jacques’ potted plants, he adds, “the elevator’s over there,” and kills the engine. Maeglin wonders if Gothmog could hear his thrumming pulse through the microphone attached somewhere inside his helmet – the thought is enough to make him claustrophobic. Pulling the helmet off as soon as his feet meet the floor, he shakes his black hair loose and fluffy, and reminds himself to breathe.

The garage, Maeglin thinks, looking around the gleaming chrome and mirror-shine glass partition walls. Right. This thing looks fucking pristine and it’s cleaner than my apartment.

Looking at the row of cars, most of them fine and new, Maeglin wonders if there’s a word for someone who is uneasy around wealthy people.

“This… this looks very nice.” _That’s lame, Maeglin, you can do better._ “Spacious.” _If I polished the floor a_ _little, I could use it as a bloody mirror. Void! This was a bad idea… I should just go back to my shithole_ _apartment before I mess this place up._

Removing his helmet, Gothmog shakes his still-damp hair out and runs a gloved hand through it, giving Maeglin a small grin.

Maeglin tries to return that smile, figuring he should say something – for a second, he’s distracted by the way that red-golden hair moves under those gloved fingers, wanting to run his own through it. Then, another shade of red steals his attention.

Gothmog's smile widens. Maeglin is staring into space, looking awestruck as he gazes at the car beside then, gleaming chrome and red lacquer polished to a high gloss.

 _Fuck that’s pretty._ “Damn, that Porsche is to die for.” _They really knew how to make cars then._ “1959, isn’t it?” He looks at it for a moment, distracted, feeling a thread of longing. “Looks perfectly mint.” Maeglin nearly salivates, wanting to touch the pretty thing – this is one area of his life where he doesn't mind being his father's son, sharing Eöl's love of vintage cars. He can almost picture himself in that car, hair tousled by the wind, like he’s the star of an old movie – and then he looks up. _Fuck_.

The name etched into the shiny metal plaque above the space doesn’t lie.

_Fuck._

“She’s a beauty, yes,” Gothmog preens on behalf of his car, running one hand lovingly along the generous curves.

_Don’t be ridiculous, Maeglin. It doesn’t matter._

“Took a lot of work, of course,” he adds, “but worth every silver Aman. She’s a lovely ride.”

Maeglin turns around and smiles at Gothmog, feeling a bit faint and wind-swept, using the hand not occupied by the helmet to fondle at the beanie he’d stuck in his pocket. A tiny part of him is already scanning for possible escape routes while another is still looking forward to the promised fun and telling him not to judge a man by his wealth. That’d just be all kinds of unfair, especially since nothing hinted at Gothmog being a fucking _Croesus_.

It’s just that he can’t look at him and see the guy who just a moment ago wore a sweaty top and ragged shorts – not without comparing Gothmog to himself, and that makes Maeglin’s mood sink. He hopes Gothmog will fuck that grumpiness right out of him.

“Shall we get going?” he asks, voice forcibly light, and heads towards the elevator doors.

Gothmog stares after him for a moment, cursing the sudden tension in Maeglin’s shoulders and his own stupidity both.

The elevator dings, opening its doors – there’s no muzak, of course, it’s not a department store, but for once Gothmog almost wishes there _was_ ; something to make him less aware of Maeglin’s sudden awkward silence.

Just as the thought runs through his head, however, Maeglin moves, the beanie he’s been fiddling with in his pocket forgotten in favour of sliding his hand into Gothmog’s back pocket to fondle his arse.

“Of course, you _did_ promise me an even _better_ ride,” he says sultrily, tugging on Gothmog’s hand until he is looming over him, pressing Maeglin against the wall of the elevator.

“So I did,” Gothmog purrs, taking the kiss implicitly offered by Maeglin’s smirking lips and feeling it grow between them, stealing the thoughts of awkwardness on both their parts from his head until his mind is filled with nothing but warmth. His own hands have journeyed into _Maeglin’s_ back pockets, groping that perfect arse as a promise of what is to come later. He wonders how loose Maeglin still is, wanting to slide a hand down the back of those jeans to test if that arse is as perfect as his memory of an hour ago promises; wanting to lead him straight to the bedroom and worry about food later – but then the doors ding and the automated voice announces his penthouse.

“Come on,” he says, more than a little breathless, dragging Maeglin by the hand across the small landing that separates his flat from the elevator, his mind filled with little but Maeglin’s soft lips on his own.

 

The small creature giving her obvious sounds of disapproval when he gets through the door – later than usual – halts the lustful train of actions in its tracks.

The tiny meows surprise Maeglin – he didn’t expect a cat, and certainly not that small. It’s really fucking cute, of course, but the contrast between its tiny form and Gothmog’s big hands is what makes him smile.

“Hey there, Patches, ma wee lassie,” Gothmog murmurs, bending down to scratch at the small soft ears. “This is Maeglin,” he says, smiling when Patches leans into his touch. The kitten meows in a most demanding manner. “You hungry, too, little one, hmm?” he adds, chuckling.

“Heh – you have a roommate,” Maeglin grins, unbuttoning his jacket and shrugging out of it, suddenly aware just how many holes along the hem and sleeves his hoodie has. _At least the socks I chose this morning are whole._ Rolling up his sleeves hides the worst ones from view as he kicks his sneakers under the coat-rack.

“Patches showed up a few days ago,” Gothmog shrugs, “but she likes my food, so maybe she'll stay a while.” He hopes so, at least – thinking about it, it’s been more than a _few_ days; long enough that he's bought a litter tray and a small scratch post... Gothmog smiles at the tiny meow, the small raspy tongue licking his fingers. Maybe he should admit that Patches has adopted him by now. The tiny orphaned calico is a small bundle of mischief and he’s more than in love with her already – even if Thuri had laughed her head off when he told her he’d got a pet.

Taking off his heavy boots, Gothmog’s own stomach gives an agreeing rumble; the recent sexual interlude has only made him hungrier, almost wishing that he had decided to take Maeglin out properly. Patches flicks her tail once before striding haughtily towards the kitchen.

Shedding his jacket and unbuckling his boots, Gothmog stretches luxuriously, happy to be home. Rolling his shoulders, he moves into his bedroom, swiftly removing his leather trousers and socks and changing into a comfortable pair of well-fitting old jeans. Tossing an old pair of underwear into the hamper and shutting the door to the walk-in closet makes the room neat enough he won’t mind showing it to someone later.

The soft light beckons Maeglin into the main part of the spacious apartment – it smells like… nothing that could be described as a smell, really? A hint of floor polish, something citrusy perhaps. A hint of leather. A whiff of something which reminds Maeglin of foot scrub. _Lavender?_

The floor doesn’t creak as he walks, quiet and warm beneath his feet – polished to a beautiful gloss which makes Maeglin think of a stage. And there’s a lot of that floor – the living room he sees is large, but not crowded, inviting him to sit down on the nice dark grey sofa – the bright splash of colour is an orange knit blanket thrown over the back of it – or in the sturdy armchair with a small glass-surfaced side-table next to it.

The furniture is not what draws his attention, slowly wandering through the large room. Every step feels a little hesitant – a strange part of his brain keeps saying _this is bad_ , that he _shouldn’t be here_ , that he will _dirty everything_ – but curious. He hasn’t been this high anywhere in some time – certainly not in this part of the city.

It’s the large windows along one entire wall.

Sun’s setting. Strangely, even that looks better here – reds and oranges and whites and pinks. Maeglin’s eyes hurt staring at it, but somehow the scenery calms him down, puts a hint of courage back into him. The last light of day turns his black hair almost reddish in hue.

He looks down. The automated lamps blink to life in the twilight, _zap zap_ , one by one.

“The view is nice from up here,” Gothmog offers quietly from the doorway to the living room, though he’s looking at Maeglin more than the familiar skyline behind him, the sound of his voice startling him for a moment.

The urge to go to him, wrap himself around that ramrod spine and make Maeglin soften with kisses is almost overwhelming, but Gothmog takes only half a step before a small head butting against his ankle with a plaintive meow breaks his focus.

Smiling at the tiny calico feline who insists on regular mealtimes, he chuckles to himself and shakes his head. “Alright then, Missy,” he murmurs, bending down to scratch behind one soft ear, “I’m coming, I’m coming.” Picking up Patches, depositing her on his shoulder, Gothmog enjoys the simple pleasure of her soft fur running along his jaw as he walks into the kitchen. “You can drop the helmet on that stand, Maeglin,” he throws over his shoulder, with a gesture towards the entryway coat rack, “where I left mine.”

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Maeglin looks down at his hand – the helmet hangs from his fingers as if forgotten, his nails digging into the padding inside. Flushing lightly, he turns away from the window and returns to the entrance, gingerly hanging the headgear on one branch of the tree-shaped coat rack. Taking the chance to check himself in the mirror, he runs his fingers through his hair and arranges his locks as neatly as he can without consuming too much time. Wetting his forefingers with his saliva, he also smooths out his brows, pinching them between his fingertips to even out the few stray hairs.

_I look so fucking threadbare._

Maeglin frowns at his image, then makes sure to let the crease between his eyebrows melt before stepping back into the flat. His heart skips a beat at the sight of this big muscular guy with a kitten on his shoulder, the little thing balancing with its tail sticking sharply out, watching intently as Gothmog locates a can of something.

The kitchen is wonderful. Spacy, clean, with all metallic surfaces polished to the point of gleaming. Maeglin doesn’t know much about cooking besides the basics necessary to keep himself fed, and some of the appliances might as well be meant for deep sea exploration. It’s a kitchen that could be taken straight from some fancy interior design magazine – but made for someone who likes to cook, _not_ just to look good.

This is Gothmog’s sanctuary, and part of Maeglin knows himself to be an intruder – and still there is that tiny stubborn voice that says he was invited to see this, to see Gothmog in his own home; he is _worthy_ of being invited into this private space. His mind flees to the bedroom, wondering that that must be like; his expectations are definitely high, now.

“The view is spectacular,” Maeglin agrees, leaning against the wall with his arms loosely folded. A small smirk hovers around his mouth as he stares at Gothmog. Those jeans are just all kinds of _nice_. “Though your place is beautiful, too. It looks… very you?”

Gothmog laughs, though the compliment makes him feel a little warm – both of them. “Thank you?” he wonders, turning to give Maeglin a small smile, feeling a soft glow of pride in work well done at the admiration for the place. “I haven’t lived here that long – it’s a fairly new building – but I don’t think I could imagine living anywhere else, you know?”

On his shoulder, Patches meows impatiently, flicking her tail at him in anticipation of her food. Gothmog chuckles, running a hand down her back and picks her up off her perch, setting her down on the floor for her meal, the small saucer beside her.

Maeglin can’t help but smile. It’s a good sign that Gothmog doesn’t seem to take his nice words for granted – though for a spell he wonders if he’s not used to hearing them often. Something in that thought doesn’t quite compute.

He looks around again, brain registering glimpses of well-thought out details, the love put into this place, and wonders if Gothmog is lonely, no matter how odd that thought may seem. He pushes off the wall, scratches at the white skin of his arm, exposed by the rolled-up sleeve.

“You like duck?” Gothmog asks, looking up at Maeglin with a small smile. He really hopes so: there’s nothing else in the fridge except a single egg that wouldn’t feed either of them, and ringing for takeout _now_ seems a bit of a failure.

“I like… poultry.” Maeglin bites his tongue before he can mention _chicken wings_ or _frozen chicken nuggets._ “Yeah,” he says, figuring duck can’t be that different. “You cook?” He knows how to fry things on a pan. He knows how to ruin things on a pan, as well. He’s just not a domestic kind of guy.

“Most nights,” Gothmog shrugs, moving to the sink. Turning the tap on, reaching for the soap – having a feline around might be cosy and fun, but he’s not keen on fur in his food – he washes his hands carefully. “Even if it’s just me alone – aren’t you hungry?”

Maeglin can’t deny feeling a touch of hunger; he’s just been way too stressed for the last fifteen minutes to even consider it. _I’d been expecting something quite different to be in my mouth by now_ , flits wryly through his mind, but apparently Gothmog’s invitation has been extended to include eating actual _food_ without Maeglin realising.

Rinsing the potatoes swiftly, Gothmog pours water into the pot and sets them to boil, glancing at the carrots and romaine that seem to be all he had left in his fridge along with some grapes, but it'll be alright, Maeglin will like it.... _right?_

Turning around and opening the fridge, Gothmog picks up a couple of duck breasts, setting a few ingredients for salad on the counter. Getting the duck breasts out of the package, Gothmog rubs in some coarse salt and grinds a bit of pepper onto the skin.

“Pan fried duck a l’Orange,” he announces, glancing over at Maeglin once before turning to wash his hands again.

“Time to feed your other stray, hmm?” Maeglin murmurs hotly. The memory of that beautiful mouth framed by red hair pressed against his touch-starved hole makes Maeglin shiver inward – he uncrosses his arms and slips closer, donning a smile as he wraps his arms around the fine waist, toying with Gothmog’s belt buckle and enjoying the firm back pressed against his chest. “What if you can't get rid of _me_ either, then?”

Maeglin’s playfulness makes Gothmog chuckle, curious fingers exploring across his skin like a promise of good things to come.

Relaxing slowly – maybe this will turn out just right – he smiles to himself. “Would that be so terrible?” he wonders, leaning back against Maeglin for a moment and turns his head to steal a kiss. "Get the zest off those oranges, would you?" he adds, nodding his chin at the fruit bowl in the corner.

Smirking, Maeglin pulls away, side-stepping in order to avoid the tiny feline munching her dinner. He washes his hands quickly under the tap and picks up an orange, tossing it lightly into the air before looking for a weak spot and piercing it with his nail, managing to get a squirt of juice into his eye.

 _Fuck’s sake._  
  
“What are you doing?” Gothmog asks, puzzled. “I said zest, not peel.”

Maeglin discreetly wipes at his face and sticks his finger into his mouth, failing his well-meant attempt at good hygiene.  

Rescuing the oranges, Gothmog hands Maeglin the salad greens for washing before looking at him properly. “Rinse out your eye – that can’t be comfortable.” Gothmog is being fussy and he knows it, but Maeglin’s twitchy blinking to make the juice stop burning is honestly distracting; he looks a bit like a demented crow.

“I’m such a dumbass,” Maeglin huffs quietly, “but where I come from, you don’t… do that… _whatever_ to orange peel.” More than slightly mortified, Maeglin relinquishes the orange and leans over to rinse his eye under cool water (a tad too cold, even, hoping that’ll help with the flames he feels invading his cheeks). Dripping water from the tip of his nose, he snatches a kitchen tissue and wipes his face dry. Gothmog picks up the small grater he’d left on the counter by the oranges and begins shaving off tiny orange pieces of zest, releasing the fragrance of the fruit into the kitchen.

“Zesting the oranges like this is good for extra flavour,” Gothmog tries not to sound like a cooking instructor, but he’s rather worried he’s failing – too passionate about food, he is. He blames Maman and Madame Cotton, his mother’s best friend, who taught him to cook as a boy. “The zest can be used in cooking where the juice or meat would be less useful… such as flavouring meat.” Or making cupcakes; adding more liquid to batter than necessary never really ends well.

Maeglin figures Gothmog isn’t trying to be annoying, talking like that. He might be a bit daft at times, but he can spot when someone’s nervous – even half-blinded by orange juice.

“Wash and drain the romaine, sweets, and shred it,” Gothmog says, tempted to kiss away the droplet of water above Maeglin’s eyebrow. “There’s carrots, too – you like em raw or cooked?” Thinly sliced and fried with some herbs and a touch of pepper and salt might go nice with the duck, he thinks, but a salad with _only_ salad is a bit dull. Grocery shopping had been a wiser choice, even if it’s too domestic for a first date – well, so is cooking, he supposes, but fuck it. Can’t change his mind now, after all – no matter what Thuri’s magazines claim.

“I like carrots… either way. But I do enjoy the crunch.” Maeglin tries to smile, gathering up the green leaves and rinsing them under the tap, shaking them dry before dropping them on the cutting board, hoping shred at least means _shred_.

“Make em how you like em, then,” Gothmog smiles, giving in. Using one aromatic finger to turn Maeglin’s face by pressing against his pointed chin, he presses his lips against that spot, travelling down the slender bridge of Maeglin’s admittedly large nose to give him a proper kiss – or three.

“I think you'll like this dish,” he promises, pulling himself away from those tempting lips and returns to his work.

The small gentle gesture wipes away the lingering remnants of Maeglin’s frown, his skin tingling pleasantly in the wake of Gothmog’s warm lips.

“Raw, then,” he decides, and sets to work, peeling the orange suckers deftly, and then grabs the knife from the rack – satisfied that there’s something he does well. His father made sure his knife skills were up to par; Maeglin could still open up a deer or fillet a fish, and he’d spent long summer days hiding away with a block of wood, crafting tiny things. The carrots hold no resistance against him – the knife is very good, on top of that.

_What else did you expect in a kitchen like this?_

Done with the grater, Gothmog brushes the clinging bits of peel into a small pile on the side of his cutting board, halving the oranges with a sharp knife before juicing. The sound of Maeglin’s knife hitting his board rhythmically makes him smile; the quick chop-chop-chop reminding him of cooking with Maman as a boy.

Scooping up the zest, he rubs some into both sides of the duck breasts and washes his hands again before he puts a pan on to heat. “Get me the Cointreau from the bar cupboard, would you?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder at Maeglin before turning away to get the flour.

Though Maeglin admits he’d rather watch Gothmog than do this himself, he likes that he is invited to take part in preparing their dinner. The way those big hands rub the duck breasts just happens to be _very_ distracting, and Maeglin needs to will his imagination down and swallow the hot saliva pooling on the back of his tongue.

He turns, flicking water from his wet hands, wiping them dry on his jeans. Contrau? Sounds Vanyarin… Gothmog wants Cointreau. I know that; it’s wine… isn’t it? Maeglin swallows. Right. You use that with food like this. No big deal. Glancing around the well-lit kitchen does not reveal a bar cupboard. How does a boxing coach afford all this?

“In the living room,” Gothmog says distractedly, whisking melting butter in a small copper pot.

“Gotcha.” He locates the cabinet easily enough, a sturdy yet somewhat refined structure leaning against the wall beside the stylish bookcase. _Silly. That can’t be all he does._ Momentarily distracted by the glossy spines, catching a few classics among them and many he’s never heard of – _Gothmog’s a reading man on top of all else_ – Maeglin runs a finger along the dust-free shelf. _Why haven’t you asked, you stupid overgrown post-twink?_

Shaking his head bemusedly, Maeglin kneels, pulling open the cabinet doors. The glint of greens and browns causes a hint of memory to surface, but he pushes it down valiantly, clenching his jaw hard as he turns the first bottle on the left to read the label.

_Nope._

His hand shakes when he reaches for the second one, having noticed the (probably) correct text printed in gold – the way glass clicks against glass grates his ears in a way totally unrelated to glass clicking against glass; a way Maeglin would have a tough time explaining, anyway.

Gripping the bottle hard, Maeglin gets up and leans against the cabinet until his vision clears and black dots stop dancing in front of him like air-thin flecks of ash from a hearth. He feels faint and weak, and horribly unattractive, and he stays put as long as he thinks he can without causing suspicion.

It’s hard to pinpoint what it is. He has no problem being around drunk people; he does that regularly – and then it hits him that he’s been asked to bring a bottle in the past, the cool weight of it too familiar even if his hand is now bigger and stronger. It was wine, then, _red_ , though probably very cheap, in a long glass bottle.

Maeglin puts his palm over his diaphragm, willing it to expand normally, breathing deep – the tingling in his fingers and toes lessens along with the uncomfortable flutter he feels in his stomach – and swallows hard. This is square, with some weight to it, and it has a hard metallic cap, his thumb not feeling the pleasant texture of cork. This is not _that_ , and now is not _then_ – _it’s different_ – the slosh and echo of liquid moving almost playful…

Securing the bottle more firmly in his hold, Maeglin returns to the kitchen, not even looking at the thing as he sets it on the counter. “I hope you meant this one?”

Gothmog looks up from his whisk at the words. Maeglin’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, dark irises hard to read as he settles against the counter beside him, close but not close enough to be in the way. He smiles back, nodding.

“Aye, just a splash – gives the sauce a bit more life.. bit of _zing_.” Gothmog winks at him, and if he’s the only one whose mind is travelling back through the past few hours in that moment so be it.

That darn smile makes Maeglin realise how stupidly gorgeous Gothmog is all over again – the picture of strong and healthy and beautiful, with a killer smile and twinkling kind eyes. He doesn’t want to want to impress him, to be good and refined and sophisticated and all that… and yet he does, even if he feels like he’d be simulating something he’s only ever glimpsed before, spying through the proverbial hedges.

“So, you cook, you box. You read too, I see? What else is there to know about you?” Maeglin smiles, showing a bit of sharp teeth. “Tell me anything?”

“I…” _was a soldier_ “am a decent programmer?” Gothmog asks distractedly, stirring the flour into the melted butter and listening to the duck breasts sizzle, keeping track of the time in his head so he knows when to flip them, when to reveal that crispy golden-brown skin. Whisking the roux, he waits for the flour to cook properly – _never make sauce that tastes like flour, my wee ember_ – before stirring in the orange juice rapidly to avoid lumps.

Maeglin notices the unease grip Gothmog’s shoulders at his question – he wonders, though he knows he’s got no place to ask. They’ve said this is a date but it’s hard to call it just that when they both know what they want from each other tonight. And Gothmog hasn’t pried about Maeglin’s life – Maeglin wonders if it’s hypocritical to feel a sting at that, when he’d probably lie anyway.

He asks himself _why_ – mayhap he’s too keen on sticking to this fantasy? Being this fun sexual escapade to someone so beyond his league Maeglin shouldn’t even entertain the thought of something… more. He’s walked away before easily enough, but now there’s a nagging thought he’s going to miss out a lot.

And yet he does, while he literally knows nothing about this man, and Gothmog knows nothing about him. _Did he just fuck my brains out after all?_

Unscrewing the metal cap on the square bottle, Gothmog is hit with the familiar strong scent of sweet orange liqueur – Cointreau may not be as popular as it had once been as a component of cocktails, but it’s tasty all the same; Gothmog usually uses it in margaritas.

Adding a few splashes of the potent liquid to his pot, he keeps stirring, the aroma of oranges and caramel sweet in his nose. “Reading I blame on my grandmother; she taught me, and when her eyesight gave out–” _when she was dying_ “- I read to _her_ a lot…”

Maeglin turns his face a little away as Gothmog picks up the bottle, breathes slightly lighter to avoid the aroma from fluttering into his nostrils – he only inhales properly again when the thing has been corked and put to the side.

“That’s nice of you,” he says, “reading to your grandmother.”

Saddened by the memory of that wizened old woman, stick-thin in her hospital bed, Gothmog turns all his focus back to the pot, brisk stirs giving away the emotional turmoil of his heart. He barely manage a hum of acknowledgement. Wondering at himself, he suddenly realises that today is an anniversary, of sorts; it’s the day Mistress Balrogath was laid to rest in a small highland burial plot, next to the husband who went to war and did not return to see his youngest son born.

Shaking his head lightly – promising himself that he’ll drive up to the old place soon, visit the house that still belongs to the family, even if they visit too rarely – Gothmog smiles at Maeglin.

“The potatoes are almost done,” he says, proud that his voice remains steady, “there’s a colander in that cupboard.” Stirring in a touch more orange juice, he reaches for a spoon, dipping it into the lovely orange sauce.

Maeglin wants to know more – ask questions – but then Gothmog mentions a colander, whatever that is, and he figures he should pretend to be at least somewhat useful. Turning on his heel to look for it, fingers dancing across the wooden cabinet doors before settling on the one he thinks Gothmog meant, pulling it open and staring into the depths. When he turns back towards Gothmog, having picked the strainer, there’s a spoon in front of his face.

“Want a taste?”

Gingerly, Maeglin parts his lips and sips at the sauce. “It’s fucking _delicious_.”

Gothmog beams, feeling his entire being light up like a string of fairy lights and he’s not even sure why he feels so pleased that Maeglin likes his cooking.

It doesn’t matter.

Basking in the feeling, he dribbles a little more sauce onto the spoon, tasting for himself and deciding that the sauce needs a touch of salt – _only ever a tiny bit at a time, mo chridhe, then taste again; you can always add more salt, but you cannot take it away –_ and hearing his grandmother’s voice in his ear.

The warmth with which Gothmog smiles ignites a fiery blossom inside Maeglin’s chest, and he can feel his facial muscles respond on their own accord. The food smells awesome, and Maeglin’s stomach does a low growl – for once he wishes he had a bit more fat around it to mute it down a notch.

Gothmog chuckles – an involuntary response – when Maeglin’s stomach rumbles. His own belly is yearning for food, too, and the smell from the pan doesn’t make him any _less_ hungry. “What do you do for a living?” Gothmog asks, wondering that he hadn’t thought to ask before… but everything about this is upside down; he’s never been with someone he hadn’t been on at least one date with before falling into bed together – and the hour or so of boxing coaching he’s done this afternoon _does not_ count. “Tell me about yourself,” he adds, giving Maeglin a gentle smile. “Oh and you can just use the pot – there are some cork table coasters in that rack.” Nodding at the rack, he flips the duck breasts, turning the heat on the sauce down.

 _You invited that_ , Maeglin thinks when Gothmog finally asks about him. _Your own fault._

“I’m… a student. Geosciences. I can’t say I really cook,” he admits, picking up a coaster and lowering the pot on it. “But my 3-minute noodles fucking rock.” _You were right about the food – if this tastes half as good as it smells, it’s going to be **amazing**._ Maeglin feels his mouth water.

On the floor, Patches does her usual thank-you-for-food headbutt of his ankle, weaving once between his legs before claiming her usual spot in the large basket he has procured for her and yawning sweetly, her tiny pink tongue cleaning her face. She will curl up to sleep soon, shredding the creepy knitted blanket – his aunt Ungolia is a bit mad and so is whoever sold her that colour yarn – that he 'accidentally' lined her bed with until she claimed the thing. The cat hairs, rends, and scratches really only improve the blanket in Gothmog's admittedly biased opinion. Maman had, with her usual grace for a verbal understatement, pronounced the gift _charmant_ but her grimace behind Ungolia’s back meant the thing was more along the lines of _effroyable_ even though Maman was too well-behaved to say so in public. It still looks like it was made from spun vomit after a long night out with dubious cocktails.

“Geosciences, hmm?” Gothmog wonders, not quite sure what that entails in great detail even if he knows that his family’s company employ people from that field of expertise in the oil business.

“Basically, I identify and catalogue rocks and dirt.” Maeglin doesn’t mention that he’s behind in his studies a lot, mostly because he has to work crappy jobs to be able to pay rent and feed himself. “Yeah. I know turning over rocks doesn’t sound that exciting, but…” Maeglin shrugs, crossing his arms for a moment, leaning his arse against the counter. “It was a childhood fancy,” he adds, “but why not make it a career?” Even if the thought of himself as a scientist sounds nearly as ludicrous as hearing this big muscle guy is secretly a computer nerd.

Gothmog picks up a knife – fine steel, made in his father’s forge – and turns his attention to slicing the duck breasts evenly, the succulent aroma making his mouth water. “How hungry are you?”

When Gothmog puts the knife down, Maeglin slips his hand along the strong arm until he reaches his hard shoulder. Pulling himself closer by it, he lets his lips flutter near Gothmog’s  ear, murmuring sultrily: “Ravenous.”

 _Trying to seduce me now?_ Gothmog wonders, feeling a shiver of lust run up his spine. He’s perfectly willing to be seduced, of course, reaching down to pinch Maeglin’s left buttock with a small growl.

Smirking, Maeglin pulls back, dancing out of reach, and picks up a couple of water glasses – and if he puts a bit more sway in his hips when he walks to the table because he knows Gothmog is watching, Gothmog is entirely fine with having been caught out. “Going to need to run these calories off after. I think you just want to make me fat.” Gothmog definitely appreciates the way Maeglin’s arse presses against his jeans when he bends to set down the glasses. The smirk that flashes over his face when he sits down is only slightly less alluring.

Portioning out the meat on his cutting board evenly and loading up a pair of plates, Gothmog saunters over and slides Maeglin's before him with a theatrical flourish. “Alas!” he exclaims dramatically, winking at him. “My nefarious plan has been discovered!”  

Maeglin makes a small amused sound, appreciating the joke – and the way Gothmog presents him his plate; the movement is surprisingly graceful. Gothmog gives a small bow in response, something almost practised – but then it might just be _him_. Maeglin’s smile widens.

Chuckling, Gothmog returns to the kitchen to pick up the sauce pot and a small ladle.  “There’s nothing wrong with a little padding,” he mumbles. Maeglin is lean, yes, but he knows there is a subtle layer of fat there, just enough to sink his teeth into, which is _just fine_ by him. Mind filled with lewdness, he takes his own seat, amused that Maeglin left his usual spot free. “You do look like a runner,” he says, remembering the slim body currently hidden by an old hoodie. “Track or treadmill, though?”

“I’m happy it shows,” Maeglin says, picking up his fork and stilling just long enough for Gothmog to sit down. _Damn, I am hungry._ He offers an apologetic smile and sips his water instead, finding he’s not only starving but also thirsty. He hasn’t had anything but stale water from his gym bottle since breakfast, and even that he left behind.

Gothmog gives a small hum of interest and pops a bite of succulent duck into his mouth, spearing one of the small potatoes and running it through the sauce on his plate.

Even if he does say so himself, it’s the perfect dish.

After a brief appreciative glance, Maeglin attacks the duck, severing a bite-sized chunk with his knife and fork. The bird melts on his tongue, and he makes a small, pleased hum, nodding his head.

“Track _and_ treadmill. There’s a gym for students at the university, but if I can choose, I’ll pick the forest.” The only thing he needs to really pay attention to is having a decent pair of shoes. “I like the… space. But I’m a fast bugger too. Went below 10.5 when I was eighteen or so.” He eats another bite, trying not to moan out loud as the meat seems to melt on his tongue. “At some point there was some talk about a scholarship. Didn’t work out, though.” Maeglin smiles a little crookedly at that. “But I still love to run, even if it’s just for the fun of it now – by the way, this duck is really fine.” A vast, giant understatement. Maeglin hasn’t tasted anything even close to this delicious in years. “I could get used to eating like this every day.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Gothmog replies, smiling a little shyly. Another bite finds its way into his mouth. Feeling for Maeglin’s feet beneath the table – he removed his shoes without being asked, which was very considerate – Gothmog stretches out his leg to run his bare feet flirtily along Maeglin's calf. Attacking his own plate, he hums in satisfaction; it's better than Dad's even if he says so himself – the Cointreau gives it just that hint of spice mixed with sweetness he adores – all it needs is... “Oh! I forgot!”

Jumping up, he returns to the kitchen, quickly opening a bottle of wine – not his best bottle, but it suits the gamy sweetness of the meal – and gathering up two glasses.

Maeglin's left to look after Gothmog – who just shot up from his chair like a bullet in search of something – a little uneasy but curious what it might be. When he hears the cork pop his heart is already sinking, but he tries to don a smile for when Gothmog returns, looking satisfied with himself. His fear was justified, and he can't help shifting uneasily at the sight of two glasses and a dark green bottle.

_Tell him. Tell him you don’t –_

_But then I have to explain why, and I really don’t want… it will ruin everything. He will think I’m…_

“Here you are,” Gothmog says, setting down Maeglin's generous glass before him, and pouring a healthy measure, “I know it's just my cooking, but well....”

“You shouldn't have…” The light tone Maeglin attempts feels somehow hollow to him, and his eyes flick uneasily between Gothmog's happy face and the wine, his own smile wavering.

Gothmog’s cheeks heat, eyes firmly on the label as he bites his lip, suddenly insecure, but knowing _someone_ will have to ask – and it might as well be him, “this _is_ sort of our first date, no?” Looking up, Gothmog finally notes the expression on Maeglin's face. “Oh, do you not like Pinot Noir? I think it pairs well with the duck...”

If he'd _planned_ for this, he would have figured out what Maeglin likes beforehand, but... this was what he _meant_ to eat tonight – and tomorrow, hence the two breasts in the fridge – and there's nothing else in the kitchen he'd feed a potential...

 _Let's not call him **boyfriend** just yet, okay?_ Thuri's voice says in the back of his head.

Gothmog flushes.

Maeglin tries very hard to stave off being upset at the glass set in front of him. It looks innocent enough. It smells a bit better than what he remembers from his past – but the tangy base is there, and his throat squeezes around itself with a hint of panic.

He does what he thinks might work best, and ignores the glass, grabbing his cutlery again and settling on sawing at another piece of meat. The fork scratches against the plate, making him wince inwardly.

“This is so good, Gothmog. I can't remember the last time I ate this well.” Maeglin looks up, smiles a little, does his best to behave as if the glass didn't sit between them. “I hope you don't expect me to cook next time. I really don't want to accidentally poison you.”

He stabs at the salad and ignores how the piece drops back to the plate midway to his mouth.

Taking a sip of the wine, feeling it flow silkily over his tongue, Gothmog hums, pleased with his selection. Maeglin does not follow suit, and for a moment he wonders if the younger man even likes wine – an acquired taste, Maman told him, for the people of her adopted country. Dad always chuckled at that, claiming _he_ was as much an acquired taste to her Vanyarin sensibilities.

“Something wrong with it?” Gothmog asks, frowning lightly at the listless way Maeglin stabs at his food. _Are you just being polite when you claim to like it? Not everyone enjoys duck… but you didn’t offer protest when I asked…_

Something has changed, for sure, the relaxed flirty Maeglin has been replaced with sullen not-quite-honest Maeglin and Gothmog is confused. Hiding his worry in another sip of wine that does not taste as good as the first, he pops a piece of duck in his mouth, suddenly convinced that bringing Maeglin here of all places was a terribly bad idea. He was already skittish in the parking garage, and no more relaxed during the elevator ride up here; something Gothmog had at the time read as hunger and sexual desire, feeling good about the way the evening was headed.

Now he's not so sure.

Maeglin catches himself staring at the wood of the expensive dining table – Gothmog’s tone has changed, and he realises he’s already displeased him. Not a good start for the evening. _Shit._ Maybe this whole thing is just one more sign for him to nope the fuck out – not that Maeglin wants to let it be, but he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to explain something that makes so little sense.

It would have been easier to refuse beer, he thinks – usually people ask, anyway, but for some reason there’s this thing about wine that makes them think it belongs with certain dishes – but now the glasses are on the table like two big fucking elephants, and how is Maeglin to tell Gothmog that he’s not easy even with the sight of him drinking, never mind drinking that himself –

Something is definitely wrong with Maeglin. Gothmog sets down his glass with a soft click against the table, tilting his head a little as he studies him. Pale, upper lip beading with a bit of sweat that also shines at his temples.

“Are you feeling well?” Gothmog asks softly, carefully keeping his voice even and calm – Maeglin looks more skittish than he did in the parking lot, and this time there’s no shiny red Porsche to distract him.

It’s Maeglin’s distant politeness doing this now. He’s overplaying it. He’s not polite. He’s a rude little fucker with little regard for anything, and that’s why he’s here, that’s why Gothmog felt like Maeglin would be fun company, he knows it, easy and down-to-fucking-earth, and if he lets himself share the shit clouding his past the man will surely decide Maeglin isn’t worth the trouble. Hell, he couldn’t even blame him for that. But why is lying so painful now?

He looks up, smiles again, his slightly gaunt face rounding about his cheekbones.

“Yes. Yes, of course. Was just remembering something, that’s all.”

Gothmog nods slightly, though the words ring as false as the smile. If Maeglin doesn’t want to talk, he won’t force him.

Maeglin lowers the knife to grasp his glass of water, hiding his wavering smile behind it. The duck, as delicious as it is, looks like it’s been butchered by a shark on his plate. He really didn’t mean to do that. He doesn’t even _remember_ doing that.

“Your place looks nice.” _Did I say that already?_ “It must be nice to live above everything like this. You can look down at all the tiny problems of tiny people buzzing about with their busy tiny lives.”

“Maeglin.” Gothmog puts down his glass, reaching for Maeglin's hand and stilling the erratic moves shrieking across the plate, trying not to let his words affect him. “Are you... alright?” There's something off in his eyes, something more than the usual 'this place must cost a lot' that he sees in the faces of people visiting for the first time – those of his friends who weren't born to wealth, anyhow, he thinks with a stab of amusement at the way Melkor looked as though his admittedly fancy penthouse was little more than a stable building.

 _I shouldn't have brought him here like this.... we should just have gone out somewhere._ Squeezing that fine-boned hand gently, he tries to catch Maeglin’s eyes, beyond confused now. Tiny people living tiny lives?

“Talk to me?” Maeglin shouldn't look small – _scared_ – like this, his fire oddly smothered, those dark eyes avoiding Gothmog's gaze. “Please?”

_Please don’t do this. Please don’t be this fucking sweet._

_Don’t read too much into it. You know what he wants._

_But he’s literally given you no reason to think that._

_You don’t even know him._

Maeglin lets the knife slip from his grasp, clink against the plate – he turns his palm, grasps the strong fingers to squeeze them a little, focusing on the warm feel of them against his cooler, though clammier ones. His chest feels cold, as if he’d already decided to just get up and leave, accept this horrible reality like he should. How long did he think he could pretend, anyway? The worst thing is, he knows it’s not just the fucking wine. If it only was that, and not this giant can of worms Gothmog seems insistent on opening.

It’s only so ridiculously fitting that the thing his father suggested him, seeking out this Gothmog-fellow, would fucking ruin him.

He should have turned the moment he saw this fucking building, returned to his damn cave in an area people like Gothmog have no reason to ever enter.

Maeglin looks up again, face white but for the red splotchy dots dancing on his cheekbones, lower lip pulled between his sharp teeth, and Gothmog realises he’s shaking, his body drawn tight with tension seeking a way out. Squeezing his hand gently, he tries to offer him a physical connection to cling to, like Glorfindel when his panic attacks hit, but Maeglin doesn’t seem to notice, lost in staring at his plate.

“I…”

Maeglin works hard to swallow the lump in his throat, suddenly parched dry – it’s hard to look at Gothmog and not let this stupid vulnerability show, and it’s even harder to realise that should they go any further than this, Maeglin will ruin him, if anything can be judged from the look in his concerned eyes…

He has screamed before.

He has hurt people before.

He has gone to places where he has completely forgotten himself, only to be pulled back into his own terrible mind to find everything around him in shambles. And he’s never needed a single drop of booze for that, unlike his father.

“I can’t do this.”

Gothmog’s heart drops – _should have known, should have known it was too good to be real, be **more** than just Maeglin wanting a quick fuck with a willing bloke_ – drawing his hand back across the table, away from this Maeglin who looks at him like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Perhaps you should…” _take a deep breath._ But the last words don’t get past his lips, watching Maeglin jump up, knocking over his untouched wine with an expression of utter revulsion – an expression that turns into something like true horror, the kind he _remembers_ , when the glass spills its ruby contents over him. “...Maeglin?”

Maeglin pulls away, feeling cold and sick to his stomach, and the motion is so sharp and sudden that he knocks over the glass, its red contents spilling over the table like thin blood, soaking his sleeve and his lap – the look of abhorrence quickly replaces the confusion, and he’s up on his feet, scratching at himself as if he’d been covered in a bucketful of spiders instead, a panicked sound pricking his throat.

Patches flees, little paws slipping on the wooden floor as she seeks shelter under the divan in the living room, terrified by the sudden movement and noise.

Jumping up from his own seat, Gothmog tosses his napkin onto the spreading pool of wine on the floor but most of his focus is taken up by Maeglin, who is tearing at his clothes as though they’re strangling him.

It may not make sense to him – who is _that_ scared of wine? – but he’s seen this type of reaction before; he knows what to do.

Ripping apart Maeglin’s thin t-shirt – ratty and threadbare, it’s no match for his strength – Gothmog is only marginally kinder to his soaked jeans and underwear, pulling off both swiftly, leaving Maeglin naked but for his socks. Picking him up, still stained by wine he’s now trying to claw off along with his skin, Gothmog runs for the bathroom, dumping him in the tub and turning the shower on, aiming the spray at any red droplets still clinging to the fair skin.

“It’s alright, Maeglin,” he soothes, one hand rubbing at his skin as the other aims the spray, warming swiftly, “it’s all gone, shhh, shhh.” Perching on the lip of the tub, he presses Maeglin’s face into his strong thigh, carding through sweaty black hair slowly, calming him like he’s Patches scared of thunder.

Gothmog is perfectly willing to accept the wetness on his jeans as simply water, though he knows better. His mind is reeling, his heart pounding with something like fear.

 

* * *

 

It’s not that this happened again.

It’s not even that this happened – that he did _this_ – here, on what was supposed to be his first proper dinner date in ages and ages.

It’s not just the shame.

It’s not that Maeglin wants to dig a hole into his own chest and climb in there and disappear into some alternate space and time.

It’s the fact that it’s been a long time since it’s happened at all, and he’s been doing so much better; almost like normal... up to the point he’s wondered if he could do this life-thing, study, maybe actually _like_ -like someone – _date_ – do fucking _picnics_ in a park or something equally lame.

And these are his first thoughts when he stops seeing wine turn into blood, stops smelling his father’s breath, stops hearing the belt looping out, the screaming – _oh, the screaming_ – feeling his skin split open, the deep bloody gashes in crimson…

It takes so long for his breath to pour out that his whole body feels stinging and stale, but when it finally happens he knows he’s fucking sobbing against Gothmog’s thigh – how in hell they ended up here, he doesn’t know, reality interlacing with memory in an inseparable way.

That’s when the shame really does hit him – there’s no going back from this, and he really shouldn’t be here, and yet somehow he knows Gothmog didn’t hesitate for a moment, didn’t let this abominable shit-flip get to him, and Maeglin doesn’t know what to do with that.

The wine is long gone down the drain, and the smell of it is replaced by the gentler, safer one of Gothmog’s skin seeping through the denim. Shivering despite the warm water he’s being doused in, Maeglin loops his wet arm around Gothmog’s knee, hugging his leg, listening to his crooning, hoping almost desperately to find the sound less soothing than it is – that the fingers in his hair didn’t feel like they _belonged_ , their gentleness begging Maeglin to accept them in a way he _shouldn’t_... couldn’t… _can’t_.

And eventually he raises his head, straightens himself just enough to curl around his own knees, toes twisting inside the wet socks.

If he didn’t feel like he owed Gothmog an explanation before, he does now, that much is certain. Since they are surely going to part after this, it matters so much less, anyway, though the truth is as always difficult to speak out.

Staring at the pristine white marble beneath him, Maeglin forces the words out in a rough croak, digging his fingers into the skin below his nape until crescent moons appear in red.  
  
“My fff _– Eöl_ was _– is –_ an alcoholic. Not just that, he – he… When he drank, he...”

It’s been years since he even uttered those words – they are sharp glass over his thick, clumsy tongue, tasting like years of childhood abuse, of loss, of betrayal...

_Fuck._

Gothmog freezes, just for a moment, thoughts flying through his head at blinding speed. _Eöl._ He knows that name.

_Fuck – fuck, fuckety-fuck! I knew he was familiar, but – FUCK!_

Catching Maeglin’s fingers, he pulls them carefully away from skin that is already bleeding, bringing one hand up to his lips and kissing it gently, closing Maeglin’s fingers over his palm.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, and it feels too inadequate by far but he’s not sure how to make it any better. Running the fingers of his free hand down Maeglin’s knobby spine, Gothmog tries to think, but gives up formulating a plan halfway through, reaching into the tub and picking Maeglin up, curling him into his chest. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss against that messy hair, finding a new grip on Maeglin’s hands to stop him scratching off more skin than he’s already flayed from his arms.

Gothmog had known Lieutenant Eöl went to the dogs after being discharged, but it was distant knowledge, the kind usually followed by some veteran or other going ‘poor bastard’ and then little more spoken on the topic.

No one likes discussing those topics.

Sometimes, the only way to get through it is to pretend you can be the same person when you come back as you were when you left… and sometimes the only way to believe _that_ is to think that you’re stronger than the ones who did not manage to make it back to the people they once were at all.

Turning the water off with the push of a button – he tried to tell Thuri why a bathroom control panel would be handy when he built the place, but he never wished to be proven right like _this_ – Gothmog carries Maeglin, trembling still, into the living room, settling down on the sofa.

 _I’m sorry too_ , Maeglin thinks, watching as Gothmog kisses his fingers, seemingly not minding the blood under the nails. _You deserve better._

He lets himself be picked up, remembering the first time Gothmog did so, with Maeglin’s arse fluttering around his cock, and feels even more boneless than he did after that. He knows he should call his doctor first thing tomorrow. He needs something – the prescription for his medication ran out nearly a year ago, and he’d convinced himself he’s well enough without...

Tugging the throw blanket over Maeglin’s wet shivery form, Gothmog pulls off his socks with little thought, pressing him close and humming a low tune. His own clothes are damp with water, but Gothmog hardly cares, rubbing Maeglin’s back and shoulders gently, holding both his hands against his heart, beating faster than he’d like, but that’s not something he can control, calming only slowly.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks softly, once he’s sure he can get the words out for the desire to curse Eöl’s name in a thousand ways for the scars he has left on Maeglin.

Maeglin tugs at the blanket, blearily watching Gothmog fuss around him like a worried mother hen. It occurs to him it’s not impossible for the guy to look for others to worry about; with such a privileged life, there can’t be that much excitement going on. The thought annoys Maeglin, makes him once again upset with his own doubts, however well they have served him in the past. _Trust the good people_. Someone’s said that before.

His skin still itches in the way that makes him thirst for his own blood, but Gothmog’s fingers around his wrists are like solid iron, and Maeglin’s left with the slowly weakening shudders, the impulse growing lesser by the minute. When he feels like he’s not going to jump out of his own hide any moment soon, and his lungs remember how to pull air into them again instead of hyperventilating, he turns his head to look at Gothmog.

Maeglin doesn’t like that look on his face. And yet, in some way it’s good to have someone look at him like this – _worried_ – like his wellbeing matters. Too bad everything’s fucking ruined now.

“I think,” he starts, his voice quiet, not stable enough for his liking, “it may not be a good idea right now.” Yet he’s surprised that a part of him actually _does_ want to talk about it, about everything, pour it over this guy like a big pile of crap, and _that_ – that he won’t do. “I know it sounds stupid. I know it’s not something that can be… understood. I’ve fucked myself over trying to make sense of myself. I’ve fucked myself over worse trying to get away from it. But, PTS-fucking-D doesn’t care if the sound of a cork unstopping makes you want to hurl your insides into the nearest ditch.”

“PTSD is a bitch no matter how you get it.” Gothmog’s tone is flat – _lifeless like the body of a friend dying in his arms_ – and he knows it, but there’s really no way around that; he doesn’t bother to try. He just hugs Maeglin tighter, rubbing his skin with the soft blanket.

Maeglin sighs, shakes his head a little, at himself, after all of this. “I’m… sorry I made a mess of your place. If you could lend me some clothes – and put mine in a bag or something, I’ll get them cleaned later – I’d be… grateful. I’d send yours back washed, of course.”

“I don’t want you to be alone right now,” Gothmog whispers, pressing the words into Maeglin’s soft hair. _I don’t want to be alone right now, either_. “Please stay here? I’ll… make up the guest room, or something, but…” he bites his lip, hoping Maeglin will accept. It’s a slim chance, but he still _hopes_.

The non-judgemental tone is unexpected but appreciated, the simple words making Maeglin warm a little inside. He wonders what Gothmog knows about being haunted by your past – there’s pained experience in that tone that seems at odds with what little he has gleaned of Gothmog’s character so far.

Then it hits him.

_Gothmog was in the army._

He doesn’t know how he knows, but he _knows_ … and it’s bittersweet to wonder how Gothmog made it back like this, and Eöl didn’t. _Oh, how different his life might have been. If only..._

Patches meows pathetically from somewhere out of sight, shooting across the floor in a small calico bundle of fur, and climbs up the blanket to settle against the both of them. Maeglin’s fingers in her fur turn her into a tiny purring machine, filling the silence with her soothing rumble.

If he hadn’t been certain that Maeglin’s a secret cat-lover from the way he’d cooed at her earlier, the small cat’s head tattoo on his lower leg that he’d glimpsed in the shower would have given it away. Gothmog dares anyone not to melt at the sight of the small kitten beneath Maeglin’s pale hands.

Maeglin looks down at the kitten, revelling at the softness of her patterned fur as it slips between his fingers, and then up at Gothmog who seems oddly shy, in the same way he feels about the offer. He’s got half a mind to refuse. He really should just leave and let this gorgeous man continue his life. The breath stirring his hair is soft and gentle and warm, and the embrace itself spelling safety in words Maeglin hasn’t experienced before.

But when he opens his mouth, it’s not a refusal that comes out.

“Yeah – okay.”

He swallows with difficulty, his inscrutable black eyes searching Gothmog’s face for anything which would tell him the offer was made out of guilt or sense of duty. He fails to see any, and wonders if he’s already sold his stupid heart and become blind, seeing only what he wants to see.

“I’ll stay.”

The words are quiet, and at first Gothmog does not think he really heard them, but then Maeglin repeats himself, slightly more decisive:

“I’ll stay.”

“Good. I’ll go change the sheets.” Gothmog smiles, squeezing him once and then extracts himself, careful not to disturb man or kitten with his shifting weight.

Maeglin manages a smile as Gothmog gets up, looking up at him with tired gratitude, and sits for a minute or two until he starts to feel like he should go help – that’s exactly when the kitten decides to climb in his lap, curling up like she owns him. Maeglin acquiesces to the unspoken demand with slow – and only slightly – shaky fingers petting her back. He lowers his head against the backrest and tries not to think about sitting butt-naked wrapped in a blanket on Gothmog’s expensive sofa.

Pulling off his wet shirt as he goes, bare feet gentle on the wooden floors, Gothmog walks into his guest room – usually the realm of Thuri when she visits, and more than a little influenced by her tastes, but Maeglin _probably_ won’t mind. Clean sheets are stored in the cabinet, folded carefully with a bag of dried lavender left in the back of the closet, a remnant of his grandmother’s teachings that Gothmog has come to associate with _home_.

As a precaution he removes the razor-blades from the small bathroom, even if Maeglin’s impulse to hurt his own skin is limited to fingernails and nothing sharper.  Maeglin doesn’t strike him as suicidal, really, but Gothmog does not want to risk it, his mind running through all possible safety measures he’s ever heard Idril speak of in connection to her abuse victims.

_Better to be safe than sorry._

If he thought Maeglin would accept the offer, Gothmog would invite him to sleep in his own bed, held safe and secure in his arms, but that’s his heart running away with him faster than reality can follow and the thought remains safely behind the guard of his teeth, swallowed down in an instant. The slight lingering taste of wine in his mouth makes Gothmog feel guilty about wanting to kiss Maeglin, carry him to bed and tuck him in like he’s small and needs protection – even if the only protection he needs is the one thing Gothmog can’t truly give him.

If peace of mind could be bought, he’d have far fewer scars himself.

Changing the sheets and linens in his guestroom takes little time – the towels in the bathroom are a calming soft green and smell of detergent and fresh air – but when Gothmog returns to the living room he can’t help but smile at the way Maeglin is curled up in the blanket, small calico kitten purring sleepily on his lap.

Maeglin’s eyes are closed as though he is nearly asleep himself, his fingers stroking meditatively across Patches’ soft fur.

_What the fuck am I doing here?_

The thought isn’t the nicest thing to meditate on, but the _hurr_ and _purr_ of Patches is surprisingly calming, and Maeglin nearly falls asleep – maybe he does, until soft words register in his sluggish consciousness. He blinks his eyes open and looks up at Gothmog – shirtless, glowing – and it takes him a second to compose himself, eyes failing not to note how light glints off the jewellery on Gothmog’s nipples, nestled in coppery chest hair.

“Are you still hungry?” Gothmog asks softly, feeling slight pangs himself, even if they’re currently overshadowed by worry.

“…The duck is cold by now,” Maeglin murmurs, more than a little apologetic. His little episode ruined a hecking expensive dinner, and he’s got no idea how to fix that. He can neither cook nor afford taking Gothmog to somewhere nice to eat. “…Want me to make us sandwiches?”

Gothmog shrugs, running his fingers through his loose hair to scrub at his neck. “It tastes fine cold, really. And I think I’m out of bread.” He blushes only slightly.

Maeglin lifts up the kitten, trying to deposit her on the couch, but her claws sink into the blanket in a very disapproving manner. “Oh, come on,” he sighs. “You’ve got _fur_ , I’m naked under this. Don’t be selfish.”

Moving, Gothmog hums soothingly at Patches, transferring her small claws to the ratty indeterminably-coloured – he’s too polite to say vomit, though that’s what it reminds him of – blanket Aunt Ungolia knitted for him and carries her to her basket, tucking in the blanket to make a small nest. He’s trying not to think about Maeglin being naked under the soft wool blanket he keeps on the sofa – burnt orange is not a great colour with his skin – nor with Gothmog’s, really – but it’s sinfully warm.

“Wait there,” he mumbles, returning to the dining area, gathering up their plates.

This time no wine.

Instead, he fills a carafe of water, picking up a couple of glasses and setting them down before Maeglin before returning to the kitchen, grabbing the box of coarse salt and sprinkling it liberally over the wine on the floor.

_Rosie Gamgee will have my bloody head._

Sighing at the thought of his housekeeper’s ire – _such a small woman should not be so scary!_ – Gothmog returns to the sofa, picking a seat at the other end from Maeglin, unsure whether his guest would welcome being touched.

The water tastes like the nectar of gods right now, and Maeglin downs two thirds in one go, leaning in to refill his glass before turning towards his plate. It still looks twice killed, poor bird, but Maeglin tugs his blanket around himself a little better and begins to eat, discreetly kicking his damp socks under the sofa. Cold potatoes are familiar, at least.

He glances over at his host, feeling a bit chagrined at how far he sits – is he merely trying to be polite or politely distancing himself? Maeglin shouldn’t assume anything, anyway. Things are already different than they were fifteen minutes ago.

The duck is still good, even if the potatoes are too cold for Gothmog’s liking and the sauce a bit congealed – the flavour of the oranges is strong in his mouth – though the salad is still crisp.

“Think I’ve some more fruit for dessert,” he says between bites, quietly killing his earlier musings on the topic of chocolate sauce and Maeglin’s delectable body. “You like red grapes?”

“Yeah, I like grapes. As long as they’re not fermented.” _Fuck, he didn’t just make that joke._ Flushing up to his ears, Maeglin busies his stupid mouth with the duck, gobbling it down with a little too much speed.

_Say something smart. Prove you’ve got something between your ears, at least._

Maeglin’s running empty. He’s tired, the food – light and healthy as it is – feels heavy inside him, and the warm feeling of fresh adoration battling with his embarrassment feels soft and just annoyingly perfect. Usually he isn’t even this alert after a panic attack. His eyes study Gothmog’s profile from the shelter of his hair, and somehow he thinks running his fingers and lips down that fine nose would calm him more than most things.

He puts his knife and fork down on the plate and twists his fingers on his lap, nervous all over again. “I… I know I said I don’t want to talk about it, but… I do appreciate what you did for me. I don’t know how you knew but…”

“You’re not the first person to have a panic attack beside me…” Gothmog says softly, gesturing at Maeglin with a piece of carrot on his fork. In truth, Maeglin’s reaction was _mild_ compared to some – no broken bones or busted noses, at least, and little more than scratches if Gothmog is perfectly honest.

He eats a few more bites.

“If you wish to talk, I’m willing to listen; if you want to just go to sleep, that’s fine, too, sweetheart,” the endearment slips over his tongue and Gothmog knows it’s too much, too soon, but every protective instinct in him is telling him that Maeglin is his to care for, to keep _safe_. “You don’t have to stay over there, either,” he adds softly, “I won’t…”

He’s not quite certain what reassurances to offer, but the thought he had earlier returns at that moment, wondering who _did_ take advantage of Maeglin being vulnerable – and not just a few violent impulses come along with it. He squashes them quickly, hoping Maeglin does not notice.

Instead, he sips his own water, washing down a suddenly rubbery piece of duck.

“Just… tell me what you need? Do you have a therapist you call when this happens, or something? A friend?”

Maeglin leans back against the cushions again, pulling his feet up with him and tugging the blanket between his legs. The sofa is nice – nicer than his bed. He would have been happy sleeping on it, truthfully. He brushes his hair back and turns his face towards Gothmog, watching him, noting the uncertainty and something he can’t quite discern. He’s not quite sure what it is that Gothmog is offering (though there’s a small, hopeful spark he’s almost quick enough to snuff), and neither does he believe Gothmog knows, either. Literally everything has gone to Void this evening.

“I’m not… alone,” he murmurs, unsure how else to describe his situation without sounding like he’s asking for something. “I’ve been okay for quite some time now. I think I’ll do fine.”

In truth he isn’t that sure of it, but there’s no way he’ll tell Gothmog he has to borrow money if he ends up needing something more than he already gets.

“I’m not sure what to tell you. There’s so much more than I have words for.” Maeglin’s eyes glimmer, emotion and yellow light borrowing them a hint of colour. “It’s not… very simple. I’m not… simple.” He smiles tiredly, leans his chin against his hand, the blanket drooping down from his shoulder, exposing a fair bit of skin and four long scratch marks running from his neck to his sternum. “And I feel like you aren’t very simple either, and if… and if we are going to try and last a few more rounds…”

And suddenly he doesn’t know where to continue from there. Then what? He’s making assumptions, nothing else, being all weird... Maeglin rubs his eye, feels the tiny muscle twitch under the pressure of his fingers. “I think I’m just confused by the amount of options you’re giving me.”

It’s meant as a half-joke but sounds way too fatigued to be just that.

“Alright, this is what we’ll do,” Gothmog says, always feeling better for having a plan of some sort. “You’re going to eat at least the meat on that plate and drink another glass of water.”

He looks at Maeglin pointedly until he pops a bit of meat into his mouth, halfway looking like he’s doing it only to humour him, but Gothmog will take mockery at this point; Maeglin needs the calories if nothing else. The food on his own plate has disappeared along with the hunger in his belly, and Gothmog feels reasonably sure of himself.

“I’m going to find you a shirt to sleep in – it’ll have to be one of mine, Thuri usually sleeps in lacy things-” they would probably fit Maeglin, now that he thinks about it, and the thought is more arousing than he expected, thinking about lace and silk hiding that pale skin… refocusing himself with a slight shake of his head, Gothmog continues hastily, “then you’re going to brush your teeth and try to sleep – and in the morning I’ll take you out for breakfast and drop you off at your clinic before I go to work.”

There’s a nice little place – _The Hobbit Hole_ – on the way to his current site, which requires checking up on even if it’s Sunday and he’d prefer to do _anything_ else. Gothmog knows he’ll feel better about leaving Maeglin alone if he knows the younger man has eaten a square meal and seen a medical professional of some sort. For that matter, it might be a good idea to call his own therapist, just to talk – he’s not quite sure he wants Thuri to know about his new crush just yet. Almost as an afterthought it occurs to Gothmog that although he now knows more about Maeglin than Maeglin is probably comfortable with, he still lacks basic information. This entire thing has been backwards from the start, though, and Gothmog blushes slightly, realising that he hasn’t been entirely truthful about what _he_ does for a living either.

Maeglin lowers the glass he had been dutifully sipping, about to ask _who the hell is Thuri?_ but the torrent of words continues, sweeping him along. He looks at Gothmog and frowns, his brain feveredly trying to come up with answers, arguments, whatnots, briefly wondering where in hell he had actually given him permission to start ordering him around. He only stills his sharp tongue at the notion of how much more secure the other seems, having come up with something he believes will work, and besides – Maeglin’s butt-naked, wrapped in a blanket, and in no position to piss this man off now.

So, he just sighs. If he needs to, he’ll play himself out tomorrow. He doesn’t need to give Gothmog his real clinic’s address… though that’d be another lie, of course, and Maeglin’s forced to ponder the point of everything.

_I don’t want to have to lie to you… but I don’t want to take you there, either…_

“If you need anything between now and tomorrow – do not hesitate to wake me.” Looking at Maeglin, Gothmog tries to infuse his gaze with all the command he has learned over the course of his life. “Understand? _Anything._ ”

_Why can’t I ever imagine – just for a second? – that someone just… genuinely wants to help? Why do I hold these secrets closer – need them more than I want security?_

“Sure,” Maeglin murmurs in answer, watching Gothmog disappear for a moment – only to return with a shirt big enough for Maeglin to drown in. He’s sure he looks comical, folding up the sleeves and buttoning the front, the length of the damn tent hanging just below his ass. He’s seen something similar in a gay porno – or a few. Maeglin shakes that thought out of his head. “…How do I look?”

 _Sexier than sin,_ is Gothmog’s first response, nearly biting off the tip of his tongue to keep it private, watching Maeglin looking too tempting for words – he’s glad, now, that he kept his jeans on even though they are still a bit damp; the boxers he’s got underneath would never hide his reaction to Maeglin looking soft and sleepy in _his shirt_ and he suddenly realises why Thuri is always gushing about her tiny girlfriend stealing her clothes because Maeglin makes his old shirt look fucking _amazing_.

And then he turns around and the bottom hem is playing peek-a-boo with his arse cheeks.

Gothmog is determined not to whimper, but he knows that he fails at keeping the gruff lust out of his voice when he speaks.

“Do you want something for the bruises?”

He was too distracted in the bathroom earlier to note if he’d bruised up Maeglin too badly, but that buttock is wearing a small splotch of greenish colour that suggests some tissue damage – he really ought to check if Maeglin’s ribs are tender, too. Gothmog might have promised him sore spots, though that seems like weeks ago now, but he doesn’t want Maeglin to be in pain, and the ginger way he moves suggests some residual tenderness.

He valiantly pretends that his question has _nothing_ to do with his desire to glide his fingers over that smooth skin again, making Maeglin sigh into his touch…

_I want to make love to you._

Gothmog _really_ ought to put some sort of stranglehold on those thoughts; he is going to have a hard enough time sleeping for the clamour in his mind even _without_ adding images of Maeglin stretched out luxuriously on _his own_ bed, head thrown back in ecstasy as Gothmog thrusts into that perfect arse, stealing kisses when he can.

If only his libido got that message, but unfortunately his cock only knows that it wants back inside that tightness – preferably _right now_.

 _Fuck_.

“…Oh.”

Maeglin twists around, pulling the hem of the shirt up just a bit, trying to see what it was Gothmog was looking at. _Apart from his arse_ – the thought makes him flush slightly, his cock giving a small twitch. _Ah, fuck it_. Once an exhibitionist, always an exhibitionist – the timing just feels weird, and he shouldn’t be feeling this lick of pleasure at it right now.

But those eyes, and that voice, and hell if Maeglin’s not hearing the answering note, or seeing it reflected in the darkened blue eyes when he looks up. He meets that look, just a tiny bit emboldened, his eyes shadowed, maybe a little daring, and he presses his fingers into that bruise, massaging over it just hard enough. It stings, yes, and the bottom of the tub didn’t do it any favours either.

Well, it’s not like Maeglin’s going to die if it’s left untreated, and he has a quiet thought to leave it at that. This evening has been confusing enough without added… _pressure_ , and just a moment ago Maeglin felt pretty much as sexy as a loaf of mouldy bread.

_Fuck if I could ever make up my mind and be consistent about it._

“Would you mind?” he murmurs, cocking his head a little to the side with a small, unsure smile while stroking his fingers over the greenish spot, the thin layer of fat letting his fingertips sink in _just so_ , pulling at his alabaster cheek _just so_. “It would probably help me sleep…”

Be clinical, Gothmog thinks. Fuck, there’s no way to not know what Maeglin is doing, pulling at his cheek like that.

Gothmog wants to laugh – or groan lustfully – or simply wrap Maeglin up in his arms and carry him to bed.

_Fucking cheeky wee tease._

He does none of it, frozen in a moment of staring at Maeglin, those hard-to-read dark eyes challenging him somehow, making him want to bite back his moment of gallantry because it’s too tempting to see _lust_ there.

“One moment,” he says instead, well aware that the bulge of his cock is more than semi hard at the moment, outlined against the tight denim. Getting up, he decides to brazen it out – it’s not like Maeglin is _unaware_ of how hot he is, is it? – walking past Maeglin without giving that pert cheek a squeeze on the way, remembering just how it would feel in his hand. “The guest room is through the doorway, first door on your left.”

Ducking into his own bathroom, he takes a moment to breathe, get himself under control, falling back on his training at the ballet academy.

_Breathe. Let go. Become nothing but the music. One with the melody._

The melody is never what the orchestra plays, it’s the beating of his own heart, slowing down as he breathes, looking at himself in the mirror.

Reaching, he finds a small tub of cream – it’s pleasantly floral, something he found in Japan, and works a treat for sore muscles and bruising – making a mental note to order some more.

Meanwhile, Maeglin has wandered into the guest room, taking in the slightly different décor. He can see it’s the result of a woman’s touch, and the thought makes his chest sting with jealousy. This… _Thuri_ , he supposes, has nice taste. Different to Gothmog’s, for sure, but nice. The only hideous thing is the bedside lampet, but even _that_ is ugly in an odd, endearing way – naked female centaurs obviously having fun with each other. A statement piece.

_What is she to him?_

_Well, not like you’re anything to him,_ he reminds himself bitterly, sure he’s ruined his chances for anything tangible by now despite what’s been said and what’s been hinted at. Maybe that’s why he suddenly felt the need to tease, like a cat who can’t decide whether to walk in or out the fucking door. _This is what you’re giving up, Gothmog. A great arse and a bunch of gigantic self-esteem issues._

He flops down on the bed, the mattress bouncing his frame until he sinks back into the pleasant softness of excellent quality duvet and sheets.

Rich people.

Maeglin could get used to this if he allowed himself to. He thinks of the ratty mattress back in his apartment, with its springs sticking out and poking at his sides, and with _way_ too much antiquated spunk in it – amused, he thinks of the field day some CSI guy would have with it if Maeglin got offed.

He stretches out, leaning over the side, and spots a hint of red lace from beneath the bed. Curious, he picks it up.

Underwear.

 _Women’s_ undies. Expensive, by the look of them.

He brings them up close to his face, sniffs.

_Worn._

And not by Gothmog, if Maeglin knows anything about how women smell, anyway. He’s been down there once or twice.

He rolls the flimsy lace into a ball and stuffs it between the mattress and the bedframe, out of sight – he’s already discovered Gothmog can move silent like a mouse, for whatever reason, and doesn’t want to be surprised being this questionable.

Instead, he rolls over on the sheets, smooths out his – _Gothmog’s_ – shirt, runs his fingers through his hair to fluff his locks out, bites his lips to renewed plushness, and casually enjoys the horizontal position while bringing his knees up and crossing his legs over each other, staring at the ceiling.

In all honesty, the room is a little cool – or maybe Maeglin’s just feeling cold, and he can feel the soft down on his arms rise as his skin pebbles, his exposed balls climbing up to make up for the room’s temperature. The chill makes sense – he realises no part of Gothmog’s body that he’s touched before has been cool, and besides the man has casually pranced around without a shirt half the evening.

Maeglin shivers, thinking of that strong, hot body blanketing him, warm hands chasing the cold out of his muscles. It would be nice to have that, if just once, if just to have something to remember with bittersweet longing when Maeglin’s drifted off to another meaningless relationship, the idea of a romantic date consisting of waiting for his turn to heat up a ready meal.

He slips a hand beneath the shirt, strokes himself without really meaning to – then pinches and smacks his prick as if in punishment, feeling it slap against his thigh, a wave of pain distracting him just enough as he turns onto his side, tracing the pattern in the sheet with one long finger.

“Here…” Gothmog says, walking into the guest room to find Maeglin stretched out on the bed, swallowing back another wave of tenderness when he sees him. The shirt is several sizes too big, standing out starkly against the grass-green linens. Maeglin’s dark hair curls at the nape of his neck, the light from the lamp throwing shades among the dark strands and making the almost elfin shape of his ear stand out against suddenly translucent skin, delicate and soft.

_Precious… that’s what you are… Small and precious and mine…_

He kills the last thought swiftly, but the sentiment lingers in his heart, nonetheless.

Gothmog’s voice breaks the silence, soft and gruff at the same time, and Maeglin turns to look over his shoulder, knowing exactly what kind of view he’s presenting. Blushing slightly, he shifts in his spot, noting the tub of something in the man’s hand.

“You’re back,” he says, voice lowered to a gentle murmur, hoping his tension isn’t notable. “Do you… do you want to – would you –”

Sighing softly, Maeglin pulls at the hem of the shirt, up almost to his armpit, showing his green-white backside and the purplish blossom on his ribs. Gothmog’s fingerprints remain where he’d left them in the shower, staking his claim where Maeglin’s unsure one exists, anymore. He doesn’t know how to feel about that, but remembering the rough promise – _mine!_ – delivered in _that_ voice makes butterflies flutter in his stomach all over again. He lowers his head, waiting, his witless heart racing like it has no business to.

Breathing slowly, Gothmog resigns himself to wanking later. Staring at the tempting curve of Maeglin’s backside, committing the sight to memory, he is distracted by the purple splotches on his ribs – the fingermarks give him an odd sense of shame-mingled pride, but it is secondary to his first concern.

And then there’s Maeglin’s voice, soft and almost innocent, like he’s not sure he _should_ ask, and Gothmog thinks he can feel a bloom of heat in his chest that has nothing to do with the tempting body before him and everything to do with the scarred mind hiding beneath that dark fringe of hair.

Moving closer, he kneels on the bed, feeling the mattress dip under his weight. Reaching, he runs his hand softly along Maeglin’s ribs, feeling the tension in him and telling himself not to read into the way his hand is curled protectively over his cock, hiding it from view.

“Are you cold?”

Pulling at the duvet, he folds it over Maeglin’s bare legs, goose-pimpled from the coolness of the room. “I can turn up the heat when I leave…” Because he _will_ leave, Maeglin doesn’t _want_ him to stay with him – for any reason… no matter how much Gothmog’s cock wants him to stay, wrap himself around that slender body and nestle himself against that arse, even if he’s just going to sleep.

 _Cold?_ Yes, Maeglin’s cold, but he’d stopped thinking about it the moment the hand curled over his hip. “Mmm, yes, thanks. My circulation is… weird. A part of why I like endurance sports; it’s nice not to have cold hands and feet all the time.” Still, he flushes a little deeper as Gothmog tugs the duvet over his feet, wondering when  someone last did that for him _unironically_...  and finding no ready answer.

_Complicated._

_What the fuck are we doing._

“Just relax, this shouldn’t hurt,” Gothmog murmurs, unscrewing the cap and dipping his fingers into the cream – there’s a slight anaesthetic mixed into the heat treatment – and dabbing it gently along Maeglin’s ribs, hearing the sharp exhale. “You’ll feel better soon,” he promises softly, using the lightest of touches to smoothe the soothing lotion over Maeglin’s soft skin.

The hand which had pressed bruises into Maeglin’s milky skin is now heartbreakingly gentle, not a fucking whisper of a feather but soothing and firm yet treating him as if he is suddenly delicate, and Maeglin suppresses a sigh as those fingers fit perfectly around his hip in the same-but-different way they did hours ago in the shower room of the gym.

It feels like it was yesterday, like it was a year ago, as if they were suddenly two completely different people.

_Fuck’s sake, I should have appreciated it more. Why is it that I want to be carefree but only miss things when they’ve already become complicated?_

He might have moaned when he feels the salve starting to heat up, the mild scent flooding his nostrils. It’s too nice to be taken care of – and this, he ponders absently as the fingers rub at his side, just firm enough not to tickle, is that. Undeserved, freely given.

“You aren’t hurting me,” he whispers, staring at the butt-ugly lampshade. Yes you are. You so are. You are breaking me into fucking shambles, and still I let you do this. To me. To yourself.

Slowly, Gothmog rubs the lotion into Maeglin’s skin, telling himself to remain unaffected by the way he moves – _is it pain or dare he think it pleasure?_ – from time to time.

When Maeglin’s purple blotches gleam softly in the low light of the bedside lampet – for unknown reasons Thuri found one with a printed screen, frolicking lesbian centaurs across the fabric that Gothmog can’t adequately explain why he has not tossed yet – Gothmog shifts a little down the bed. Returning his fingers to that tempting arse, he massages lotion into the green-tinged skin with maybe slightly more pleasure than he’d usually feel treating a bruised trainee – of course, he doesn’t usually have memories of just how glorious some of those bruises were to make, nor does he usually bring his trainees _home_ or feed them dinner, let alone set them up in his guest room.

The dreadful sludge of Maeglin’s mind matters so much _less_ when Gothmog’s hands return, this time on his backside; big and warm and perfect and gliding over him so easily, aided by the creamy lotion. Maeglin tries not to push his bum into the touch – tries not to look like he needs it so much, but the effort makes him shiver instead, the hole probably still loose from the pounding it took twitching just some distance away from those gentle digits, and Maeglin can’t help closing his eyes and thinking how the same touch would feel there, disarming in its tenderness …tenderness which he shouldn’t want, shouldn’t need, can’t ask for, doesn’t deserve.

“Better?” he asks, trying to resist the temptation to continue touching Maeglin beyond what is medically plausible. The pulse in his groin beats a quick tattoo and he doesn’t need to look to know what that part of him votes for, filling his mind with images half fantasy half memory.

 _It’s not better you fucker, it’s a thousand times worse now_ , Maeglin thinks, inaudibly huffing, pulling his thigh up a little to hide how hard he’s become, a drop of moisture clinging to the head of his cock.

“Yeah,” he says, voice soft and low and bearing a quiver – he turns then, just a little, his lips slightly parted and licked damp, face gently flushed. And damn him, Gothmog is just beautiful, all the warm reds brought out by the light, his flawless musculature creating shadows of its own – manly, sexy, divine, sinful…

And that’s how fantasy undoes him, too close for comfort and too far for pleasure, and Maeglin silences the raging crowd of demons in his head by pushing himself up, up against those lips, a pitched keen dying at the contact, fingers entwining in the thick hair like hooks. Something in him cries for it, that relief, the oblivion of lust which has stopped meaning much years ago until reignited today, and _why did he even play this game when this is where he wanted to go_ , when this is where Gothmog just needs to tell him _no_ ….

For the second time that day, Maeglin surprises Gothmog physically, surging up against him and pushing him down. Those soft plump lips attacking his mouth with a keening sound made of sheer hunger, sparking an answering _need_ in his own body. The sound is smothered almost instantly against his mouth, but it seems to echo in his head, answered by some part of him that wants nothing more than surrendering to the urgency of the moment.

Gothmog responds, his hands still slick with lotion, one pressed against Maeglin’s lower back, one firmly set against the mattress, keeping his balance when he is forced back towards the head of the bed, a deep groan escaping him.

The relief at having Gothmog respond to his kiss is like a wall being blasted open, a gaping chasm, and Maeglin feels himself fall into it, feels them _both_ falling into it, deeper and deeper with each caress, with the way Gothmog yields beneath him, allowing him this craving, this… horrible mistake, this sickly-sweet dream, this…

“...Maeglin?” Gothmog moans against those lips, confusion battling lust in his mind, trying to gentle the kiss to figure out exactly what just happened, but it’s a losing battle, he knows; his hand roams lower, cupping Maeglin’s arse once more and pulling him closer, feeling Maeglin’s cock press against his. Maeglin’s fingers in his hair are new, tugging just right, and make Gothmog hiss and nip at his lips before diving back for more, giving up on making sense of what he feels – or what _Maeglin_ feels – in favour of drugging himself on those kisses.

…If he just kisses hard enough, doesn’t stop, tugs Gothmog back by his hair, allows him no time to compose himself, relives the steamy hot experience in the locker room bit by bit by bit until Gothmog is lost in Maeglin, Maeglin might just have this for a moment, one moment to last him a year, a lifetime, _ten minutes_...

He doesn’t even know if most of his arousal is this sense of urgency, so sudden and so overwhelming. He breathes Gothmog’s name against his lips but says nothing more, his thighs finding their way to cradle him, and the sense of belonging is astounding and terrifying.

Gothmog’s too hard for his jeans to be comfortable, but still too aware to simply rip them off and lose himself in this pleasure. Instead, Gothmog pushes back against Maeglin’s cock, his hand roaming everywhere beneath the soft flannel of Maeglin’s borrowed shirt, and loses himself in kiss after kiss, suckling on Maeglin’s tongue or nibbling on his lips when they part for a panted breath.

“What -”

_Please, please don’t speak._

Moaning rough and low, Maeglin drowns out the words from the other’s lips, biting into them with fervour and slipping his tongue between the soft flesh, his fingers flexing in the ginger hair, hips pushing forward into that denim-clad hardness, smearing Gothmog with his heat.

The question is cut off by more kisses and Gothmog blindly floats along with the lust singing in his blood, surrendering to the need of the moment, even if he’s still slightly surprised to feel his head hit the soft pillow. Bringing his free hand up to cup Maeglin’s cheek gently, Gothmog feels the throbbing in his groin answered by the hard press of Maeglin’s body, moaning softly when he increases the speed of his rolling hips.

The hand on his face is that of a lover’s, not a possessive hold – _do not think about it do **not** think about it… _Maeglin growls, plants his hand against the mattress beside the coppery head, pushes forward, harder…

Pushing up against Maeglin almost undoes Gothmog’s self-control, his eyes opening wide – _when had he closed them?_ – but the sight of his face is enough for Gothmog to still beneath him. Gently, so gently, he pushes Maeglin away, lifts his face enough to catch those eyes. He stares up at him, feeling something curiously akin to heartbreak slice through the fog of lust hanging between them.

The wet, sweet lips slip from Maeglin’s, and he whines in frustration until he sees a droplet glistening on Gothmog’s cheek. That innocent, tiny thing betrayed him – _twice_ , since he had no idea he was crying, not like _this._

“If this is what you _need_ , I will give myself to you,” Gothmog whispers softly, meaning it – the pain in those eyes physically hurts him, and Gothmog can’t claim to be _unwilling_ in any sense of the word, but he _needs_ to know what Maeglin is really after. Wiping beneath Maeglin’s eye with his thumb, Gothmog gives him one more almost-there kiss. “Is this… Tell me what you want, darling, tell me why you are crying… please.”

Gothmog’s eyes are made of worry first and arousal second – and Maeglin wants to tell him it’s nothing and lean in again, melt into him so that Gothmog would have to scrape him off come morning, fuck himself onto that giant fat cock until his arse is sore and done for… but now he just remains there, hanging like a black cloud over Gothmog, handsome, alluring Gothmog, and Gothmog is wiping at his salt-stained face with gentleness that gives Maeglin just more cause to cry.

And he’s so tired of crying today.

“I want…” And he _wants_ , he wants _so many things_ , he wants _nothing at all_ , he wants more than he can ever have. The want itself is making his lungs cave in, taking his breath away. How is he to tell Gothmog what the fuck he wants? Certainly, not Gothmog’s best interest…

“I d-don’t know, I – _fuck_ – ”

_You._

You.

_Say You._

“You – you say that. You say that now. I want to believe you. I’ve never had anything for myself, just… just for _me_.” The words make him feel more exposed than his bare arse ever could, and he frowns, trying to keep his chin from wobbling like a child’s.

Gothmog’s hand smells of some foreign flower Maeglin doesn’t recognise, his cheek slightly tingling from whatever numbing ingredient it holds, but he pushes his lips against it and kisses the flesh of Gothmog’s palm, clumsy, messy.

“I’m a handful, I know I am – I’ve been told, I can’t… _I can’t fucking help it_ …”

Maeglin raises the hand he’s not using to keep himself up, shaky fingers tracing the skin just where Gothmog’s beard begins beneath his cheekbone – so so _so_ soft – and then down to bite-raw lips he just ravished like a sex-crazed moron, his glossy eyes transfixed to the glint of white teeth as he runs his two longest digits over slick flesh. Somehow this touch feels more intimate than anything, and Maeglin wonders if it really should be so… _good._

_How fucking broken and messed up am I?_

He rocks himself over Gothmog’s prone body, wiry muscles flexing under the crumbled mess of his borrowed shirt, the lengths of his hair just short of brushing Gothmog’s face.

“I… I don’t know what about you gets under my skin like this – I don’t know, I just… When you know someone’s so much better than you, you should leave them alone, right? I feel that. I fucking feel that. But every single stupid molecule in me argues against that logic and I’m afraid I won’t cope with myself if I go now…”

_Or if you just dump me in the morning like trash in front of a clinic I have lied to you about._

“Come here,” Gothmog tells him, drawing him down until he can kiss those tears away, wrap his arm around Maeglin’s back and hold him close. The kiss stays soft, embers lying in wait beneath the surface, waiting to blaze into a wildfire of lust, but for now he needs to comfort more than he needs to devour. “Relax, my sweet.”

Running his large hands soothingly over Maeglin’s back, reaching down to palm the curve of his arse from time to time, he waits for the trembling to stop.

“You’re doing very well, Maeglin,” he murmurs, leaving no space for an answer between kisses. Maeglin might not want to talk about the reasons behind his episode earlier, but this feels like backlash to Gothmog. “I’ll take care of you,” he promises, “shhh.”

 _Trust me_ , he wants to add but knows it’s probably too much to ask right now, more than Maeglin’s wrung-out mind can handle. Instead he offers gentle comfort, feeling slightly out of his depth, but even more pleased that he’d made Maeglin stay, now.

“I’m glad you stayed…” he mumbles into that soft mouth, the hunger muted now. “My lovely handful.” It’s half a joke – one hand is wrapped around a very lovely handful indeed – and half truth – there’s no doubt Maeglin has issues, but Gothmog isn’t scared; not even the self-deprecating admission at the end of Maeglin’s tirade puts him off.

Gothmog is torn between surprise and amusement when he realises that they’re both still hard – well, surprised that Maeglin is, at least, considering the outburst of emotion that just spilled from him; Gothmog will need to think about what it all means later, but in this moment it is enough to hold Maeglin and feel him calm slightly, slipping into a place that is not asleep but not quite awake where he rests on Gothmog’s chest.

_Stay. Stay with me, sweetling._

He doesn’t say that – by now he has realised that caution is needed to ensure Maeglin doesn’t simply bolt – doesn’t want to coerce him like that, but he keeps himself loose and open, soft beneath Maeglin – with one notable exception. Maeglin is still rocking slightly, more than enough to make his jeans even more uncomfortable than they already were.

Gothmog doesn’t stop him, continuing his slow caress, discovering the best ways to make Maeglin mewl into his kisses. He’s not sure where this will lead at all; when he first decided to follow Maeglin into the showers, he had _a_ plan… but that plan has changed several times over even just since they walked through the door. There are things he _wants_ yes, but somehow his own pleasure has been relegated to a spot so far down the list of priorities that he quite easily ignores the lust flowing through him in favour of petting Maeglin’s soft skin, stroking his slender limbs and long muscles with gentle hands.

_I won’t leave you, my sweet… you’re mine._

_You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into_ , Maeglin muses as Gothmog whispers him sweet promises, kissing his face like a treasure it surely isn’t, not this damp and puffy and surely snotty, but for once Maeglin doesn’t argue. _So what if it doesn’t last long?_ Maeglin bargained for one night of forgetfulness, had it passing in and out of his reach, and now he doesn’t want to let go. The wine spilling feels like it was ages ago, and he realises the hysteric outcome was a sum of many things, his need for some sort of acceptance rising to the top. And yet he thinks he doesn’t know himself anymore, relaxing into Gothmog’s embrace so that his body slowly becomes as malleable and loose as it usually is instead of that tight knot of nerves and tension it’s been all evening.

Maeglin could have proved himself right many times by now, he thinks, picking at the mouth-watering lips offered to him, exchanging slow, nearly lazy kisses. He’s good at ruining everything, but so far Gothmog has made it harder for him.

Has anyone ever told him he’s doing _well_? A few have promised to care for him, only to fail him down the road, and a bitter voice at the back of his mind whispers _this is too new_ – but the body beneath him is warm and strong and accepting, and as long as Maeglin can make himself think this isn’t _him_ in those arms, not _that_ Maeglin who does horrible things, but a Maeglin Gothmog believes him to be, maybe all’s good. Maybe he can pretend, just a moment more, a day maybe… let Gothmog see if he can take care of him.

And yet the gentle touch still burns, chases away the cold from Maeglin’s body, and restlessness seeps back into him after a while of those kisses – more kisses than Maeglin believes he’s ever received – and careful petting. He pushes up, sniffs, and runs his hand down Gothmog’s chest, his long fingers tracing hill and valley until his fingers meet the first button.

“I’ve figured,” he starts, voice honeyed even through the signs of his earlier distress, “what I want. At least right now.” And he licks his lips, pokes his tongue at the inside of his cheek in a lewd gesture, and deftly unbuttons Gothmog’s jeans.

“As you wish, Princess.” Perhaps the reference is a bit odd, but who cares? Certainly not Gothmog, whose only complaint – it’s childish, really, and he _knows_ it – is that this is not _his_ bed. “And how do you want it?” Gothmog wonders, looking up at Maeglin with a slight smile. Lifting his hips, he allows Maeglin to slide the denim down his legs, pausing slightly at his thighs.

Kicking the jeans off the bed, Gothmog smiles, spreading his legs slightly to give Maeglin more room. Cheekily, he pushes his hips up, flexing to make his cock jump beneath the soft grey cotton that leaves very little to the imagination by now, a darker spot outlining the drooling head. He thinks he knows what Maeglin wants to do and fuck if he hasn’t been dreaming of that since the first taunt escaped those well-shaped lips.

Reaching out, he traces one kiss-swollen lip with a finger, purring his offer again: “What do you _want_ , Maeglin?”

Maeglin’s been asked that question more than enough times by many different people, but this is the first time it elicits a rush of liquid arousal through his veins, making him buck against thin air and lower his lashes to flutter over his eyes. _How can anyone be made of pure sex like that_? he wonders, his cock jerking beneath the hem of the wrinkled shirt, peeking out with obvious interest.

Hand hitching up the strong thigh covered in luxuriously soft hair, Maeglin parts his lips and slides his tongue over the pad of the finger, his hot breath stirring the hair on the back of Gothmog’s hand.

“I want your prick in my mouth,” he whispers, low but sure, “and see how far I can take it in my throat, and if you like the feel of it fluttering and stretching around you as much as I think you will…”

Indulging the other, Maeglin sucks the finger in, hollows his cheeks around it, swipes it with his tongue while bobbing his dark head a little, and slips his hand up to the impressive bulge, massaging it with the heel of his palm before letting Gothmog’s finger slip from his lush mouth. He then turns towards the still veiled cock to breathe over the shape of it, raking his teeth deftly over the length  – smirking to himself at the sound of Gothmog’s lustful groan, his fist hitting the mattress – before curling his fingers under the waistband, pulling his prize free with care.

 _Isn’t that just the most beautiful thing._ Maeglin smiles at the sight of it, retreating just enough to pull the boxers down the muscular legs, and then – with a hot, meaningful look directed upwards at the handsome face, holding the blue-yet-oddly-warm eyes – he kisses the big, engorged crown and swirls the tip of his tongue around the curious piercing. The glistening skin is even softer and smoother than his lips, and Maeglin moans at the salty, wholesome taste as it spreads over his tongue.

“So _good_ ,” he murmurs, though those words might not even be needed if Gothmog can judge anything by his facial expression – blissed out, heated, blushed – his wavy hair curling about his cheeks, lips licked wet. Maeglin smiles then, loops a lock of hair behind his ear, and slowly sinks down the hot, hard shaft. The girth of it is pressing against his soft palate in a way that makes him need to adjust his position to allow it further into his gullet, but it’s just so ridiculously _perfect_ he doesn’t find it in him to complain, relaxing instead until he’s over half-way done.

“Maegs… _fuck!_ ” Gothmog shouts, clenching his fingers in that dark hair and hissing in pleasure, trying _so hard_ not to buck up into that _mouth_. _That glorious mouth..._ “Oh, baby, please…” He’s not sure what he’s begging for, reprieve or release, but Maeglin gives him neither, teasing him with every flick of that sharp tongue.

And then he really gets to work, swallowing until Gothmog wonders if anyone’s throat has ever felt so good, keeping himself still even though he’s nearly vibrating with the effort.

“Gods you’re pretty with your mouth full like that…”

Gothmog has no idea what he’s saying, really, Maeglin’s sucking all thoughts of filtering out of his mind, but the look of blissful determination on his face as he draws Gothmog further towards heaven is so beautiful he wishes he could look at it forever.

The rest takes a bit of willpower and pushing himself, but where there’s a will there’s a way, and though Maeglin can’t breathe and his eyes are tearing up anew, his sharp nose finally meets the nest of dark red curls. The sense of achievement makes his own cock bob, a drop of arousal marking Gothmog’s thigh.

Blood is loud in his ears, endorphins singing through Maeglin’s haze, and _fuck if he doesn’t just love this…_

When Maeglin inevitably gags, Gothmog expects him to pull away, but he just… keeps going?

Caressing his ears, Gothmog stares at the sight of Maeglin’s mouth stuffed so full, his throat bulging with the girth of Gothmog’s thick cock, so rare and quite frankly unexpected Gothmog is surprised he doesn’t come on the spot.

“Oh, yes, baby, you’re so good to me,” he groans, closing his eyes to savour the feeling only to find the lack of sight unbearable, catching Maeglin’s dark eyes just as he sinks down fully, his nose pressed against the well-groomed red curls that cover Gothmog’s groin. “ _Fuck_.”

Maeglin’s mouth is magic, pure and simple, hot and soft and tight and _wet_.

Maeglin would smile if he could. Steadying himself against one hard hip he moves, back up and then down, his soft throat making room for the cock he’s determined to worship with the adoration it deserves. The pressure from the inside is nearly as satisfying as it was to have _that_ up his ass, and he brings his free hand down to his own cock, swallowing a little painfully around the twitching length as his hand curls around his sensitive shaft. He could come like this, yes, if he wanted – he would come regardless if he only had something inside him, a toy to press at his walls and rub against his prostate.

Gothmog seems to enjoy himself – oh how beautifully he moans, Maeglin loves it when big men lose themselves – but he’s holding himself back, twitching and tensing whenever Maeglin makes it especially good for him. The satisfaction seeing and feeling Gothmog’s pleasure is enough, for now, anyway, and Maeglin lets go of himself, fondling the heavy sack his chin keeps brushing against instead. He treasures the hold in his hair, loving the occasional – clearly restrained – tug and pull, and wonders at the right way to release the beast.

He pulls away, slowly, catches his breath once, and murmurs in a slightly hoarse voice: “You can move if you need to. I won’t break.”

His tongue darts out to tickle at the piercing just beneath the head, lips closing around it to kiss it gently. “I want you to come in my throat, big guy. Can you give me that?”

Maeglin smiles, trying to make it warm and pretty and welcoming, and grabs Gothmog’s cock to draw it back between his lips, over his flattened tongue, down his adjusted throat.

_Show me what you’ve got._

“Oh, I can _definitely_ give you that,” Gothmog smirks, wiping a stray droplet of saliva from Maeglin’s lip with his thumb, using his grip on that silky hair to press him down a little, testing the waters for more. Moving his free leg lightly, he lets Maeglin have better access to his balls, enjoying the curious touch of those long slender fingers. “Don’ worry about the metal, by the way,” he moans softly, drawing Maeglin back up before pressing him inexorably down once more, “explore as much as you like – _ah, yess_ , like that, darling, _just_ like that – _fuck_ , you’re good at this.”

Maeglin accepts the invitation for exploration keenly, gathering a hint of his own drool from the root of Gothmog’s rod with his fingers and slipping his hand just beneath his balls, pressing at the skin there, rubbing at the spot which makes most guys crazy.

 _I could do this all night,_ he thinks _, please let me please you enough so you let me do this again._

Maeglin likes to suck cock – it’s one of his favourite sexual acts, yes, but the intensity of this moment leaves his mind reeling, tentative happiness and growing hunger climbing up the same ladders in a swift but steady race.

Moving his hips slowly, gauging the verisimilitude of Maeglin’s claim, Gothmog feels the fire burn him inside out, rushing through his veins and bursting like stars behind his eyes, Maeglin’s clever tongue making him groan out loud.

The position is a little awkward for fucking Maeglin’s face properly, but Gothmog does his best to give him what he asked for, planting his feet firmly against the mattress and using the leverage he can get to push himself between Maeglin’s delectable lips. His hand in Maeglin’s hair flexes and releases, guiding his face down and drawing it back up when he gags, letting him gasp for air before slipping down once more, letting Gothmog enter the tightness of his throat.

“You’re too hot,” he growls, “so bloody _good_.”

Propping himself up on one elbow, he thrusts up into that hot wet cavern, pressing into Maeglin’s throat until he thinks the guy will protest, but Maeglin’s eyes show no pain, only lust, glazed over and dark, his hips moving without conscious command, humping against Gothmog’s leg in a way that only stokes him higher.

The praise goes straight to Maeglin’s loins, making him groan with the pleasure of being thus possessed. He keeps his eyes intent, watching Gothmog and his slow descend to madness as Maeglin does his best to swathe his rod with his tongue every time he comes up for a breath. The amount of air he’s able to get is very limited, just enough to keep him lightheaded and aroused, being guided up and down while Gothmog’s cock glistens with his precum and Maeglin’s saliva.

“Mmmm, you _really_ like this, don’t you, love,” he moans, allowing Maeglin no room for a verbal answer, only enough time to take in a gasped breath of air before he’s back inside that mouth, his eyes closing on their own accord as Maeglin’s tongue plays over the metal bars resting against his glans. “Fuck, keep doing that, baby, _oh, please_.” It’s been a while since he’s enjoyed such a skilled mouth and no matter how much he _wants_ it to last, he knows the end is rapidly approaching, a desperate keen leaving his lips as he fucks up into Maeglin’s soft mouth.

He loves the way Gothmog’s muscles twitch at his belly and arms, hinting of his strength, the quiet power long trained into them, and the way his hair curls when teased all wild and free. Yes, he’s strong, and Maeglin has had strong ones before, but there’s something so beautiful and pure about him that Maeglin finds he has nothing to compare him to. Gothmog just _is_ , exists in his own right, a beautiful beast, the one of his kind. It’s almost sad, in its way, but then again it just serves to make him even more desirable.

Gods – he’s so hard and Gothmog’s doing him _so good_ that he almost wishes he wouldn’t come anytime soon, despite the sweat seeping through the flannel and the welling of his eyes, the increasing complaint of his well-used throat and the ache in his jaw… He looks up at him, eating the man with his eyes just as he swallows around his cock.

_I can take care of you, too._

And so Maeglin slips into the zone, the place where nothing unneeded moves through his mind – just the beauty and pleasure of being penetrated, the blessed quiet of overwhelm, and he only drags himself out of there when he feels the tell-tale tremors of Gothmog’s body, the edge in his voice growing more desperate by the moment.

At the last second, Gothmog lets go, giving Maeglin the choice of swallowing as his rhythm stutters with the onrushing force of his orgasm. Groaning, he feels every spurt rushing up through the shaft, blasting out of him with more strength than he expected, falling back onto the soft bed.

Maeglin whimpers in answer, grabs Gothmog’s thigh in encouragement and sucks his prick harder, wet from his nose to his chin, and when he feels the first taste of thick salty goodness and Gothmog releases his hair, he merely presses down and swallows, more than a mere hint of pain pricking him – then pulls back before Gothmog’s done, the tail-end of the generous load painting a creamy stripe from his brow to his cheek, dripping down his face.

Tugging gently on Maeglin's hand, Gothmog draws him away before oversensitivity can cool his bliss, returning Maeglin's satisfied smile.

“Seems you've made a mess of yourself, my sweet,” he murmurs softly, reaching out to cup Maeglin's face in his free hand and trusting his still-quivering abdominals to keep him upright when he rises, leaning in to kiss that mouth with something like reverence. Keeping his hold on Maeglin's face, he studies the streak of cum slowly sliding down his skin.

Maeglin suspects he’d sound like a frog if he dared to speak just yet, so he just smiles enigmatically and runs the flat of his tongue over the spent cock, pleased like a cat at the bowl of cream, and squeezes Gothmog’s fingers in his. It’s like gravity, this odd, irresistible force drawing him closer to Gothmog – and not just his hand which does it now, bringing Maeglin to a kiss so slow and delicious Maeglin fears he’ll melt right there, become a sticky puddle in Gothmog’s hands.

Giving Maeglin his best boyish grin, Gothmog draws back. “So messy, sweet lips,” he purrs, grin growing as he leans in, licking his cum off Maeglin's face before returning to his mouth, kissing him deeply. Stroking that blessed dexterous tongue with his own, Gothmog revels in the possessive feeling the taste of his own cum on Maeglin's tongue brings him. Suckling gently on that slick muscle, he allows his hands to roam lower, one palming a pert arse cheek and one dancing across Maeglin's chest beneath the soft flannel.

He then chuckles quietly at the tongue drawing over his skin, blushing a little at the brashness, though the way his testicles tighten at the sensation is almost uncomfortable, his poor body having been aroused for so long already. Kissing Gothmog back with more than a hint of that sweet desperation, Maeglin curls his fingers over the man’s shoulder, feeling the lines he drew there earlier – slightly raised but already scabbed over – and lowers his backside just so that the hard muscle he’s straddling offers him some relief and further torture, the skin of his cock dragging over the hotness of Gothmog’s thigh. The sensation is somewhat dry though Maeglin’s aware he’s slowly making it slicker, and _slicker,_ marking Gothmog like an animal in heat _._

“You are a gifted little cocksucker, darling,” Gothmog tells him like it's a secret shared between them, his voice dark with lust and something else – a hunger for _more_ , filling his soul with the desire to make Maeglin _his_ for longer than tonight. “But you seem to be having a bit of a reaction… Best let me help you with that.”

The hand caressing Maeglin's arse presses him closer, lets him grind against Gothmog's strong thigh as the kiss grows deeper.

What Maeglin absolutely adores is Gothmog making him feel like there’s no one else – it’s easy to forget that he doesn’t know if he’d be Gothmog’s first or second or _fifth_ choice – and they haven’t even discussed if there _is_ anyone else in his life. Maeglin pushes the mention of this _Thuri_ out of his mind before it can bother him too much. Expressing that jealousy right now would probably derail things, though Gothmog does seem to enjoy it when Maeglin tightens his hold on him and rakes his nails lightly over his skin as if Maeglin staking a little claim pleases him.

_You’re special, Lavalocks._

That dark rich voice complimenting his mouth-work makes Maeglin whimper with desire, a quiet sound he’s quick to douse with a kiss, soft and sloppy yet deep – the big firm hand on his backside makes him move with confused delight, to grind against the body Maeglin just successfully pleasured. A series of soft noises pour out of him, his body singing along with them, and he thinks he’s just made of want, _want,_ his entire body a continuation to his wishes.

“Tell me what you want from me,” Gothmog orders, feeling Maeglin tremble in his arms. “Anything you want…”

He might regret that offer, but Gothmog doesn't think so, feeling a shiver of lust run through him, his spent cock giving a small twitch in response.

“What do _you_ want, Maeglin?”

“Anything, huh?” Maeglin murmurs, voice wonderfully fucked raw, and arches into the heady touch, his lean muscles rippling beneath his skin, sweat still slick at the small of his back. He shrugs out of the flannel now, feeling warm enough – too warm – and leans in to press a couple of kisses against Gothmog’s jaw, enjoying the scent and taste of him, the tickle of beard he finds himself fancying more and more. “ _Anything_ , you say?”

Maeglin knows what he wants, it’s only the headiness of offered power making him pause, causing him to like Gothmog all the more. _He’s as brave as he looks._

He gives the man a long look with eyes dark yet searing, fingers carding deep into the thick hair, gently scraping the scalp beneath – and smiles, adoration competing with hunger, a twitch of his lips exposing his slightly inflamed nerves.

Maeglin then takes Gothmog’s hand, brings it up to his lips and sucks at the thick, long fingers, lathering them up with his tongue until they are ready and glistening; it may be more than slightly insufficient for what Maeglin has in mind, but he’s not in a mood to ask Gothmog for lube – nothing which would steal him from Maeglin’s arms even for a moment – and so he brings that hand to his hole, still a little sore and sensitive though also dearer for it.

“Your hand,” Maeglin whispers and swallows around the soreness of his throat – then steals another kiss, brief yet sweet. He can’t help thinking of how much he liked Gothmog’s gentleness earlier as he massaged lotion into his skin and stroked calmingly over his limbs, giving Maeglin back a hint of his lost peace. Now he wants Gothmog’s touch to put him out of his mind again. “Your hand… and kiss me – and talk to me… please. I – I like your voice.”

_My voice? Well that’s… new. And fucking hot. Damn._

“Want me to speak to you, hmmm?” Gothmog says, deliberately dropping his voice into its most gravelly register. “Tell you how much I like this arse of yours, I expect,” he teases, pinching the unbruised cheek lightly.

Rubbing the pad of his wet index finger in a slow circle around Maeglin’s hole, feeling it twitch against his fingers, he smiles, slipping his tongue into Maeglin’s mouth for a quick spell. Pulling back just a little, he moves his mouth, wrapping his lips around Maeglin’s earlobe and tickling it with his tongue, tugging gently before releasing him. Licking a stripe up the shell of his ear, Gothmog whispers darkly, turning his voice into something like a purr, rumbling through his chest:

“Because I _do_.”

Pressing one finger into Maeglin, he tests how stretched he still is and adds another, thrusting shallowly – _teasingly –_ until Maeglin whimpers in frustration, nipping at his lips.

Running his other hand up the length of Maeglin’s spine and back down, he grabs a handful of that lovely arse, hitching Maeglin’s leg higher around his hip. Moving his hand back up, he grasps Maeglin’s neck, feeling the short hairs there tickle his fingers as he plunders that mouth, feeling his cock give a valiant attempt at firming though growing truly hard will take longer than Maeglin currently has the patience for, if Gothmog is any judge.

The red hair on Gothmog’s face tickles and scrapes Maeglin’s neck as Gothmog kisses his ear, clever soft lips offering such a delicious, opposing sensation that Maeglin’s whimpering and biting his own lips red. The whimper turns into a moan at the low purr of words and the probing finger making its way into him, returning with its friend before Maeglin can complain about the insufficient stretch. Fuck, maybe he should be embarrassed how loose he is, but there’s also the knowledge that Gothmog did it, Gothmog pounded his arse open like a tender pussy, and damn if that doesn’t turn Maeglin on more, make him push back against that deft hand. “Yes – just like that, please – _more_ …”

Gothmog flips them, kissing Maeglin hard as he pulls his fingers free. An undignified oomph escapes Maeglin, the luxurious softness receiving him with a warm welcome.

“Don’t st –”

“I think I like this view…” Gothmog ponders, leaning down for another kiss and using Maeglin’s distraction to stretch him around three thick digits. He’s surprised by the sound Maeglin makes in response, something almost torn from him in a wailing moan of pleasure. “Such a greedy arse,” he croons, “I wonder how pretty you’ll look stretched around four… or _more_?” Kissing Maeglin again, Gothmog tickles that soft hole with his pinky, well aware that it’s too dry to make good on his promise, but feeling a need to make it reality all the same.

“Oh, Gods…”

Crying out at the wonderful, sudden stretch, just bordering pain in an exquisite way, Maeglin clings to the man with his legs, his fingers coming to bundle in the sheets, white and knotty, and then Gothmog’s free hand finds his poor, neglected prick.

Leaning back on his heels, Gothmog wraps his hand around Maeglin’s weeping prick. “And this pretty thing… _oh, I do like this_.” Stroking Maeglin slowly, he watches him stretched and moaning, tossing his head on the pillows whenever Gothmog’s thumb circles the head of his cock or his fingers run across that magic spot inside him, his thumb pressing against Maeglin’s perineum.

Hovering over him, Gothmog leans down, continuing the work of his hands and kisses Maeglin gently. “Though I think I might like kissing you more, me sweet,” he croons, “oh you’re taking this beautifully aren’t you… so tight around my fingers, still... Maybe I _should_ give you one more...”

He won’t… _tonight_.

“Oh- _oh, Gothmog!_ ” _I want, I want all of it, please fucking ruin me, I don’t care, give me your fucking arm if you want…_

Maeglin arches his back, pushes himself up against Gothmog’s body, heart a fluttery mess inside his chest, the flat indentation of his belly twitching with tension, sweat pooling in the hollows of his hips. He’s so sensitive he can feel the heat radiate all over him, thinking his soul is trying to launch itself free from his body every time Gothmog rubs over his prostate.

“Please,” he whispers. _More._

Pushing his fingers into Maeglin, Gothmog searches for that magic combination of touches that will send him over the edge. “I watched you, earlier,” he reveals, breathing slowly against Maeglin’s ear, giving him a small nip before returning to those lips, drinking down Maeglin’s moans like the sweetest wine. “So beautiful – are you going to paint my chest again? – you’ve already made a mess of me, sweetling, should finish the job, really.” His cock is still only half-hard, but he presses it against Maeglin’s thigh anyway, rubbing against him just for the pleasure of it. “Another time,” he promises, “I want you in my mouth.” Rubbing his beard against Maeglin’s smooth cheek, “Then I’ll make a proper mess of you, darling… or perhaps you’d like to turn my beard white, hmmm? Fascinated by the fur, you are, I know, you like the way it feels against your skin.”  

Gothmog’s voice, rough and gravelly yet hot and tender at the same time, seems to vibrate on the same frequency as Maeglin’s every single molecule, and he’s pleading for that tension to release – or never to stop, he doesn’t even know. Kissing back with sloppy, desperate eagerness as Gothmog’s tongue explores his mouth, Maeglin quivers with his need to come.

“ _Urunya_ ,” Maeglin begs, pushing his thigh up against Gothmog’s length, “please, please, please…”

Smirking, Gothmog nibbles on Maeglin’s lower lip, feeling him quiver and tremble, “Or maybe I’d get you to cum on my tongue another way… I think you’d like that.” _At least you did earlier_ … “But right now, my pretty, I want you to cum for me.”

Quickening his strokes, Gothmog uses his bulk to press Maeglin deeper into the mattress, forcing his tongue between those lips in rhythm with his hands.

“Cum for me, Maeglin…”

Maeglin stumbles into his completion at the next stab and drag of Gothmog’s fingers, his eyes opening wide to look at Gothmog – then closing tight, skin wrinkling between them as his entire body tenses and pushes upwards against Gothmog’s chest, the thigh hitched over his hip shaking compulsively, a bony ankle digging into Gothmog’s arse. He doesn’t quite scream, no, but the cry forcing its way through him is animalistic, soul-deep, pained and real, giving up a greater piece of himself than he’d agree to part with outside this ephemeral realm of orgasming. His seed is a warm splash between them, though not very copious after coming twice already that day, clinging to Gothmog’s hand with a few droplets catching his chest hair, glimmering there like melting pearls.

Maeglin pants, overcome, boneless but for an occasional twitch which causes another low wordless murmur escape – he twines his fingers into the soft red hair in the back of Gothmog’s neck and huffs weakly against him, slack lips pressed against the corner of Gothmog’s soft mouth.

“That… that was…”

“Beautiful,” Gothmog whispers, gentling his strokes slowly, dragging the pads of his fingers over Maeglin’s prostate in a torturously slow glide, extending his pleasure as long as possible. Kissing Maeglin’s cheek gently, he rolls off him, pulling his fingers from those warm depths with a final caress of the rim, watching Maeglin catch his breath with a small smile. “What did you say there, by the way?” he wonders – whatever language it was, it’s not familiar to his ears – “the uru – urun.. something?” Stroking Maeglin’s body, he waits for a response.

When none seems to be forthcoming, Gothmog gets up off the bed, heading back into the small bathroom to clean himself up, deciding that he’s had enough pleasure for now and leaving his cock to deflate as it pleases – he’s a little horny, but a glance at the clock tells him not to bother building up the fire in his loins again; Maeglin is in no state to take more, either.

Returning to the guest room, Gothmog wipes down Maeglin’s bared chest carefully, the warm washcloth gliding over his skin and taking away the sweat and cum that stains him – the flannel he borrowed is stained, too, but Gothmog doesn’t care too much about that – and carefully inspecting his twitching hole for tears, wiping away any residue of saliva.

Looking up at the light snore, he shakes his head amusedly, feeling a yawn stretch his own jaws.

_Well... you had a tiring day, my sweet. Sweet dreams._

Pulling the duvet free and tucking it carefully around Maeglin’s body, Gothmog leaves him be, turning the lights off on his way. Silently moving through the apartment, he checks on Patches who is sleeping serenely in her basket, and walks into his own room.

He usually sleeps naked, and this night’s no different, barely awake enough to get his teeth brushed before he crawls beneath his light duvet, falling asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

 

* * *

 

Maeglin wakes up with a shiver, the sudden jerk making him hiss at the slight discomfort of his body. He pushes himself up, shifting on his arse a little gingerly, and it takes him a moment to remember where he is.

Gothmog’s guestroom. _Right_.

It’s hard to explain why he feels disappointed to find himself alone. The bed isn’t wide enough for two to fit comfortably (certainly not for someone of Gothmog’s size, anyway) – and besides that, Maeglin’s used to his own peace, startling himself awake at every move or noise which doesn’t come from him. He shivers.

_You didn’t kick up the temp, Firebrand._

Pulling his knees up to his chest, Maeglin brings a hand to his hole, testing the slightly raised edge of it, finding it a little aching but relatively alright. Gothmog did take good care of him – the hint of warmth he feels at the thought makes him a little uncertain of himself, once more.

_Don’t be stupid, Maeglin._

He kicks his legs off the side of the bed, feet hitting the fluffy rug, and gets up, locating the light switch easily enough thanks to his good night vision – it doesn’t take him long to find the thermostat. Of course, it’s been set to uncomfortably low, and just to stand there causes Maeglin feel the chill between his bruised thighs.

_What the fuck is this thing, even?_

He turns the dial, trying to hike the count up by at least five degrees, but the gadget gives no indication it’s listening to his commands.

_High tech piece of crap._

Maeglin finds himself thinking back to the living fire in the hearth of his childhood home, the cosy pop of dry logs and the shower of sparks shooting up the blackened flue.

He ponders for a moment, glaring at the thermostat while rubbing his arms, annoyed.

 _Well Firebrand, you brought this on yourself_. He elbows the light switch and slips out of the room, closing the door after himself.

The hallway is even icier, and Maeglin feels the involuntary tic of his muscles at the cold. With less fondness than the fireplace of his parents’ home, he thinks of the freezing streams running across the copses, the wet mosh and damp clothes. He had loved the hunt, the anticipation of a kill, but he was always so cold, _so cold_ , that sometimes his fingers shook too much to aim.

Creeping over, Maeglin peers in through a couple of doors in the dark, witnessing various flashes of the opulence that is Gothmog’s lifestyle, and feels almost amused wondering how Gothmog would feel about his one-room flat with groaning floor planks and noisy pipes, the rat traps in the pantry and cardboard in the window – or the smell of takeaway Thai food drifting from downstairs, sometimes overwhelming the staleness with the spicy aroma – not to mention the wafts of the cloying sweetness of weed-smoke lingering in the entire block.

Third try’s the charm – Gothmog’s bedroom smells of him, the whiff of his cologne lingering about like a soothing web, and Maeglin can make out his form prone on the king-sized bed, chest rising and falling in deep sleep.

Staring, Maeglin feels suddenly nervous again, more and more certain he’s intruding Gothmog’s peace, invading his sanctuary like this in the heart of the night. Yet it’s the chill which drives him forward, makes him lift the edge of the duvet and slip beneath – the warmth trapped under the duvet is enough for him to sigh, pleased, and he carefully adjusts himself to lie with his back towards the sleeping giant, tugging at a spare pillow tucked a little to the side.

“Mmm-Maegs?”

Maeglin stiffens a little, feeling Gothmog shift, the beddings sliding and slipping as he turns, a warm hand gliding over Maeglin’s hip beneath the blanket.

“’Am cold,” he murmurs in answer, holding onto the edge of the lush pillow. “I can’t get the – ugh, never mind, I just –”

“C’m’ere…” The big strong arm curls around his middle, pressing him flush against Gothmog’s chest.

It’s like the light snoring never even stops, and Maeglin doubts the short exchange even registered in Gothmog’s consciousness, but now he’s sure as hell trapped, with his heart tapping against his ribs in a fevered rhythm.

For a moment, he stares into the darkness ahead, unable to relax, but after a little while he closes his eyes and lets the manly scent around him guide him back to sleep, the heat of Gothmog’s body chasing the cold out of his.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you fancy seeing what Maeglin and Gothmog look like, Dalandel [posted An Art over here](http://dalandel.tumblr.com/post/183732449013/hello-guys-and-guysettes-and-everyone-beyond-and) featuring our boys ;)


	3. Rudeigin mu mhiann agus èislean ann an Tirion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So who wants to guess what this is titled?

The man lying in his arms is built nice and lean, a pair of gorgeous globes pressed against his rapidly hardening groin, parting delightfully with every lazy move of his hips. Gothmog smiles, one of his hands wrapping around the man’s hip, the other snaking beneath his body to tug him closer. Mouthing at his neck, Gothmog searches for spots that make his lover moan and squirm, feeling smooth and supple skin beneath his dancing fingertips. Sleep makes him languid, but the little minx in his arms can’t hide his breathy moans anymore than Gothmog can hide their effect on him. 

He’s slippery and soft, pressing around Gothmog on all sides, thrusting himself back every time Gothmog drives forward, his face buried in soft wavy hair. 

_ So good, my pretty.  _

 

It must be a dream.

A good one.

The shitty, unfortunate bit is that Maeglin rarely has good dreams – and the saving grace to that is that this right here isn’t a dream, but full fleshy reality poking him in the ass.

A soft moan pebbles across Maeglin’s skin, floating into his ear. He tilts his head back to feel those dreamily soft lips properly against his neck, picking at his skin all warm and nice – the tickling and only slightly rough beard makes him feel all kinds of tingly, dragging against his shoulder. There’s a big, warm hand on Maeglin’s chest, splayed over his sternum for support and to keep Maeglin against the strong furry chest, and another on his hip, clutching the bone through soft, white skin.

Gothmog must have been at it for a while – they’re both hard, and somewhere along the way Maeglin’s hand has curled around his own cock, working it up and down, stuttering a little when the thick pole of Gothmog’s cock stabs him, uncoordinated but hot and more than a bit slick in the head.

 

Pressing himself more firmly against that perky arse –  _ oh god, I want you _ – sliding into tight soft  _ heat _ with a soft moan of his own, Gothmog begins a slow but steady rhythm, rocking back and forth into… 

_ …Maeglin… _

Gothmog stops dead, freezing mid-thrust. 

“Gothmog?” Maeglin whispers, voice thick with the remnants of sleep, but there’s no other answer than a low groan right beside his ear, and shivering with the pleasure of it Maeglin parts his thighs just a bit, feeling the meat slip between and along his slickened perineum. The hand not wrapped about his hard-on inches to meet the rounded velvety head as it emerges from beneath Maeglin’s balls, curious fingers petting along the shape of it and gently grazing the slippery bar of metal.

Gothmog’s eyes pop open in the pale light of pre-dawn, his face smothered by tangled dark hair that makes  _ no _ sense. Except it  _ does _ . 

Maeglin has to bite his lip to keep the answering noise in, yet doesn’t quite succeed – and then Gothmog stops, his formidable body suddenly very still. Maeglin’s name from his lips is like a question, the cock between his thighs giving a single twitch.

“.... Maeglin?” Gothmog wonders, still stuck somewhere between dream and reality. He already knows the answer, of course, mortification clearing his lust-drowned mind a little. “ _ Fuck _ .” Cursing low but fervent, Gothmog buries his face in Maeglin’s neck, the smell of warm sleep and a touch of the floral soothing lotion mixed with the heady scent of sex filling his nose. 

_ I… what am I doing? _

He wants to fuck between Maeglin’s thighs again – he must have been doing it for a while, to make him this slick with pre-cum – and damns himself for the desire. 

He should pull away, apologise –  _ why is Maeglin in his bed, anyway?  _ – and take care of his throbbing prick in the shower he'll definitely need, smelling like sweat and sex as he is, the wash from the night before little more than a distant memory.

And still he’s frozen, his cock caught between those warm soft thighs, Maeglin’s shaved balls resting against his skin.

Maeglin himself feels tight, more on the edge than he had thought – he grabs his prick harder, feeling his blood sing helplessly within his veins.  _ It’s not enough. _ And yet – how beautiful is this, how  _ wholesome? _ Is it the mere lingering aftereffect of a dream making him think he’s never wanted anyone to fuck him between the thighs this much?

“D-don’t stop,” he stutters, feeling the hot breath puff against his skin. “You’ve got lube?”

“Wait, what...?” Gothmog asks, still not quite awake, his whole body filled with warm throbs of pleasure. Maeglin's body is soft and good against his chest, that tight arse snuggled up to his belly.  _ What kind of bastard am I? Fuck, he feels good – shit, pull away, oh god, so slick, so warm.. _

Maeglin is confused, for a second wondering if Gothmog’s making fun of him, but he sounds genuinely groggy, voice still thick with sleep. “Lube,” he repeats nonetheless, wanting to  _ keep going _ even though Gothmog seems hesitant all of a sudden.

“Lube?” The question makes little sense to Gothmog’s mortified mind, still awash in pleasure and lusting for more. Maeglin groans in his arms, that arse pressing back against him with insistence. “Bedside table,” he adds automatically, his cock twitching, a spark of lust trying to win out against the part of him that can’t describe this situation without using expletives. 

_. _

Maeglin pushes himself up on one elbow, reaching for the nightstand and rummages for a tube with hasty fingers while cursing beneath his breath. Between his thighs, Gothmog moves a little, pulling away before returning with a groan he tries to stifle, as though he didn’t mean to move yet.

When Maeglin locates the lube he swiftly unstoppers it, pouring a big blob on his hand, and lifting his upper thigh he smears himself with that, grasping Gothmog’s cock in passing and pulling it even more flush against his slick flesh.

“Go.. go on.” Rubbing the side of his face into the pillow, Maeglin resumes his touch on his prick, the remaining lube aiding the glide of his hand, making him whimper into the thick cushion. 

“You…” Gothmog swallows hard, the slipperiness of the lube an unexpected jolt to his system. And still he hesitates, failing to make sense of his dream and his reality all at once. The slick heat surrounding his cock, squeezing him in a light tantalising rhythm, does his mental faculties no favours. 

“Please,” Maeglin murmurs, pleading, insistent, “I’m so  _ close _ . Gothmog, please.  _ Move _ ...”  Pushing his backside further into Gothmog’s lap, Maeglin lets go of his cock to put his hand on Gothmog’s hip, encouraging, urging. The hot breath against his skin makes the small hairs on his arms rise. He squeezes the cock trapped between his thighs, presses his fingertips into the powerful buttock, and undulates his slender hips, feeling lust burn in his veins – Gothmog is so close Maeglin can feel his heartbeat reverberate in his own chest.

Gothmog’s fingers flex, gripping Maeglin’s hip tighter. He makes a sound deep in his chest, something raw and primal, rough with lust as he surrenders. Groaning into Maeglin's neck, he moves, that blessed softness wrapping around his cock, almost-illicit pleasure coursing through his veins, pumping his blood hotter with every stroke.

A withered cry breaks free from Maeglin’s lips when Gothmog finally moves, fingers tight on Maeglin’s hip. Pressing his face into the pillow, cheek flattened against the silk-covered duck feathers, Maeglin moves back against the hardness, his thighs taut around the big slick cock. It feels so good, offered with this new purposeful rhythm – kissing his slightly sore hole, sliding over the skin of his perineum and pressing into his tightening sac, making his cock bounce with every thrust. Maeglin doesn’t want to think. He just wants. He wants to  _ want _ . It’s so rare, so beautiful, so terrifyingly  _ perfect _ ; a pet name flirts with his lips, nearly leaves them in a delighted rush, and he tilts his head back to look at the other, managing to catch just the flurry of beard and messy bed hair.

“You’re so fucking  _ beautiful _ ,” Gothmog growls, nipping at Maeglin’s tempting skin and feeling an almost visceral need to mark him. “Gonna slaister ye,” he groans, falling into his father’s growling tongue without notice, “ _ mo dhuine dubh...bréagha _ .” 

The sounds Maeglin is making –  _ gods, how is he this responsive  _ – spurs him on, grinding himself between those soft slick thighs with wild abandon, a torrent of words that Maeglin won’t understand falling from his lips, languages mixing and mingling like building blocks scattered by a petulant child across the floor, bumping into one another and creating a cacophony of incomprehensible sound that all say the same thing:

_ I want you. More. Fuck.  _ **_More_ ** _. _

The growled praise turns Maeglin’s insides into mellow liquid fire, a wave of adoration so strong he feels like he can’t breathe for a moment – were he not so ridiculously turned on he might freak out, but luckily his brain is too engaged with the way they move and fit together, how Gothmog’s big hand seems to warm his entire chest beneath its weight.

“ _ Yes _ ,” Maeglin murmurs, broken yet somehow soft, feeling deliciously taken, “please – harder.” He wouldn’t call it less intense just because Gothmog isn’t inside him – there’s strange exquisiteness to this movement, this  _ rut _ , this ebb and flow of bodies.

The hand against the mattress twists into the abused sheet, toes scrambling for purchase against the soft fabric. “You – you’re so fucking  _ strong _ – I just  _ love _ it.”

_ You are beautiful. _

Somehow it doesn’t even matter that Maeglin has no clue what Gothmog’s saying; there’s a soft brutality to the words, the cadence accompanying the rhythmical, near-animalistic fucking in a way that makes Maeglin lose himself. Crying out in searing bliss, his fingers knead the hard, hot muscle at Gothmog’s shoulder, fingertips gliding over scabs he left there like a small brand of ownership that soothes a part of him never normally given voice. 

_ If only… _

Even the low groans in Maeglin’s ear are beautiful. He winds his fingers into Gothmog’s hair instead, bowing his back so that his arse melts against Gothmog’s groin, the heat and lube and sweat making it feel all sorts of filthy and perfect.

It’s sordid, Gothmog knows, but some deeply buried primal part of him finds this filthy fucking almost more satisfying than taking Maeglin’s arse…  _ almost _ . This, however, is different,  _ perfect _ , unusual – he can feel the rapid beat of Maeglin’s heart beneath one palm and against his cock both, and the thought is almost enough to push him over the edge. 

Tasting the salt of sweat Maeglin licks his lips and lets go of Gothmog’s shoulder to draw his hand back down where his greedy-yet-neglected cock bobs heavy and ruddy between his legs. He curls his fingers around it and keens raggedly at the surprising sensitivity he finds within, igniting a spark which won’t let itself be doused anymore… Whining deep from his throat Maeglin jerks himself faster, a little out of rhythm, giving himself even less mercy than Gothmog’s powerful thrusts grant him… He almost wishes Gothmog dared to make true of the subtle threat of his bite, his whole body anticipating the sweet pain of it. 

“ _ Mo dhuine lomnochd brèagha _ ,” Gothmog breathes into Maeglin’s ear, fingers dancing around his nipple.

Maeglin hums in answer, rolls his hips, loving the way the thick head massages his sensitive inner thighs and slippery crack, rearranges his testicles out of its way. It’s like pulling at a ball of yarn from both ends, this way he feels like he’s both tightening and unravelling.

“Maeglin!” Gothmog gasps, “ _ Beantuinn thusa do thu fhéin… mas e do thoil. _ ” 

Fingers flex and release with every move of his hips, pressing Maeglin back against him and letting him go, knowing that he’s close,  _ so close _ , and Maeglin is not far behind, either, the deep moans and high-pitched whines coming from him already familiar. 

_ “F-fuck.” _ Maeglin’s stomach feels tight, his thighs pressed together so snugly he absently thinks they might spasm sooner rather than later. He’s surrounded by Gothmog’s scent, his warmth, those lovely grunts he makes right into his ear – and so, senses full of beautiful things, Maeglin grips himself tighter, digs his thumb into his slit in passing, shivers in Gothmog’s embrace.

“Give it to me,” he murmurs, huffing hotly into the dampened pillow, body so tense it might just burst in flames, “come on, Firebrand, paint my fucking thighs – I’m –”

_ Coming. _

And Maeglin does, his shout half-eaten up by the pillow, his cock spewing its load into the expensive sheets and all over his slick, white hand. He trembles through it like a leaf, crying out as if in pain, though it’s not hurt he feels.

Burying his face against Maeglin’s neck, breathing in the scent of sweat and musk that clings to him, Gothmog gives in to the demands of his body, fingers flexing as pleasure shoots up his spine, exploding in his mind like fireworks.

 

Maeglin  _ floats _ – his body feels heavy and light, as if held together by a weak electric current, buzzing and humming in post-orgasmic haze. Yet there’s a strong body behind him, rooting him, more than a hint of musky sweat permeating from their skins – an errand lock of black hair waves in front of Maeglin’s face at every breath, a muscle tics at his thigh from having contracted it for so long.

Gothmog comes down only slowly, a soft smile pressed into Maeglin’s shoulder. One hand has fallen to the mattress, but the other is slowly caressing up Maeglin’s side and down his flank, making him shiver against Gothmog’s furry chest. 

Gothmog’s grin widens, his hips still moving lazily, keeping him on the cusp of too much.

  
  
  


_Slowing down_. Maeglin is slowing down. Heart-rate, mental processes,  _ everything  _ is moving like treacle, soft and sweetly blissful.

Even the whispers of age-old trauma are quieted, muted far beneath the volume of how  _ fine _ he feels, even with his own cum staining his fingers and the creases of his palm, his body feeling wet and used yet thoroughly pleasured.

It hasn’t been so for ages. Maybe never.

Eyes closing slowly, he allows himself to think back for a moment, reliving a memory or two… Time makes memories golden, they say, yet there’s just too much crap there, too much hurt and shouting and nothing good, and this… if this can become more golden than it feels right now, Maeglin might just be the richest person in the whole world…

He whispers something which might be a  _ thank you _ , an assent, uttered from a place soft and delicate, so well protected it almost might not even be, and if there’s a facet in him which isn’t against such fragile things, he finds it without a dissenting voice and rotates it towards the light, turning his head to steal a lazy kiss from the pliant, sleepy lips.

Some things are better not inspected too closely, too harshly – a smile lifts the edge of his mouth, and though he’s held tight he wriggles closer, slippery backside firm against the softening length.

Yawning lightly, Gothmog falls into a happy doze –  _ it’s too early to get up, surely? Especially when my bed has such a hot and willing guest, perfectly sized for cuddles  _ – his strong arm wrapped securely around Maeglin’s waist and his nose buried in those soft curling locks. A kiss, soft as a feather, makes his smile widen, his arms tighten. 

“Good boy,” he murmurs, eyes slipping shut, the duvet kicked down to his ankles but it doesn’t matter, his body is filled with languid fire, keeping him warm and toasty. Lazily pressing kisses against Maeglin’s neck, he relaxes, his mind turning into nothing more than a light hum of contentedness. This is a good place, he finds, warm and snug, sunlight seeping into his soul. “My pretty Maegs…” 

With a smile playing around his lips, Gothmog sleeps, the first golden rays of the morning sun only just beginning to paint the horizon in light pastels.

  
  
  


The room is still blessedly dimmed, shadows muted and tranquil when Maeglin wakes up properly, blinks his night eyes open to see the noble silhouette traced against the gloom, messy hair swept aside by a careless hand, perhaps. A light snore is the only noise, the sound fluttering softly from between the soft lips Maeglin had bruised red and plump during the late hours. The way his own mouth feels – swollen and slightly tight – tells him his is pretty much in the same condition.

_ If only it could be like this… always... _

He lifts a hand, traces the sculpted collarbone with a gentle finger – presses a tender kiss against the sleep-sluggish yet strong pulse at Gothmog’s neck, his splayed palm against the broad chest. Solid. Beautiful. Made to endure, Maeglin thinks. Something inside him trembles with tentative reverence.

_ Couldn’t it? _

He’s still damp between the legs, from tailbone to the trail leading up to his navel, the black hairs sticking to his skin in haphazard patterns. Scratching at himself, Maeglin rolls his shoulders a little, shakes his hair free from the lingering effect of the pillow. The bed smells like lube, like sex, like their combined sweat, but the potpourri is warm, soft in a way only few things are. It takes away some of the twinge and complain of Maeglin’s body as he pushes up, lets the duvet slip down to his thighs. Gothmog sleeps through this undisturbed – Maeglin can’t help but smile and lean down to kiss his lips, the touch light enough to be confused with a draft, perhaps, were it not so warm.

He lowers his feet to the carpet, knuckles pressed against the thick mattress; breath escapes, shaky and slow, and reality finally breaks through the remnants of the painfully beautiful dream of past few hours.

It’s the half of him needing to escape that wins.

The door is mute as Maeglin steps out, the patter of his feet quiet on the floor. Carefully, he closes the darkness in, presses the handle down deftly and releases it without a sound.

The soft click of the door wakes him, his arms disconcertingly empty. Gothmog frowns, feeling for Maeglin’s warm skin. Opening his eyes slowly, he wonders for a brief spell if he had dreamed his presence, but the black hair wafting in the tiny breeze of his breath where it lays on the pillow makes him realise that it was real.

It was  _ all  _ real.

Blushing, Gothmog throws off his duvet, the small stains on the covers and the sheets making the heat in his cheeks burn hotter. 

_ Where is – oh. Oh!  _

He is out of the bed before he decides to, the light throb of his groin leading the way. In his mind’s eye, Maeglin’s legs are spread slightly, standing against the pale blue tiles of Gothmog’s shower, a clear challenge in those dark orbs as he motions downwards. Gothmog wonders if he has ever wanted to kneel before another that much, wanted to wash himself off someone’s skin as a prelude to  _ more _ …

Padding on bare feet across the floor, he opens the door, intending to offer Maeglin the use of the shower –  _ his own, preferably with company _ – to wash off the obvious evidence of their pleasure. 

Stopping in the doorway, he stares.

_ You are beautiful. _

The thought remains unspoken in Gothmog’s mind, watching the glow of morning light tease auburn strands into Maeglin’s dark hair, his pale skin still shadowed by the vestiges of nightly shadows, the purplish bruising standing out against the cream but softened by the shadows of the half-dark room. 

_ Stay… or come back. Soon. Please. _

Dawn is but seconds away. Maeglin can taste it – the pale warmth piercing the aged night, trickling across the floorboards, kissing the polished grain. Shivering lightly, having left the warmth his body had got used to alarmingly quick, he lets his steps take him back to the window, slim shadow growing as sunlight pierces the horizon.

Somehow, Maeglin feels like he’s already traced this same path hundreds of times – like his whole existence has been shattered into alter egos of fevered drugged dreams where impossibilities are as everyday as porridge.

It’s a dangerous fantasy, a lie Maeglin might just wish into truth without meaning… with full intention, should he let it happen in the first place. He knows he’s just adrift enough that he could get in a lot of trouble, desperate for a fucking meaning he hasn’t had for a too long time.

Moving closer, bare feet silent on the carpet, Gothmog wonders if he dares taste that tempting column of flesh; Maeglin’s neck seems to beg for kisses. 

The white ceilings are touched with pinks, with warm yellows and oranges. It might feel gentle; the mellow beginning of a new day, but Maeglin wishes the day would never come – that he had a reason to tiptoe back into Gothmog’s bedroom, insinuate himself under his arm, sleep a little more.

Biting into the strip of torn cuticle on his thumb, Maeglin watches the city, vaguely wondering if the city watches him back, standing there, bare, hair dishevelled and body love-bruised.

In the end Gothmog doesn’t dare, his hand falling short of touching the marble perfection of light and shadow that stands before the large expanse of glass limned in the light of dawn. Instead he comes to a halt, still naked himself, looking over Maeglin’s shoulder at the wakening of the city below, the river a glittering ribbon of reflected light. The windows face south-east, so dawn is never glaring, though he often follows its slow progress across the cityscape from this very spot, a mug of tea in hand. 

“Good morning,” Gothmog says quietly, trying not to startle his… guest. He’s still not quite sure what to call him, despite the early morning….  _ rut _ is the best word for what he did, and part of him still thinks it was the wrong thing to do. .

_ How are you so quiet? _

Maeglin turns his head, heart missing a beat before adding two or three in a rapid succession, making him feel slightly faint for the shortest moment with the way Gothmog’s edges seem to blur and then sharpen, the morning light melting against him like something divine. He’s so stupidly statuesque, naked and handsome, shaped perfectly like marble from a master’s vision. Before words come out, Maeglin’s gaze flicks downward, the black of his pupils eating at the starless void of his irises at the sight of Gothmog’s cock.

“Were you cold?” Gothmog wonders, moving a little closer and watching Maeglin’s tongue wet his lips, his eyes running down Gothmog’s body like a warm caress.  _ We smell like sex _ , Gothmog thinks, sniffing lightly. Perhaps  _ reek  _ is a better word. He’s about to open his mouth – maybe a joke will break the sudden awkwardness he feels, knowing his semen has dried down Maeglin’s thighs? – when Maeglin looks up.

Maeglin knows he’s filthy, a hint of staleness hanging to his skin, and there’s the beginnings of grease to his tangled hair as he combs his fingers through it. He’s not at his best – truth be told, he hasn’t been at his best since yesterday, but that doesn’t diminish how marvellous Gothmog made him feel last night… _ Damn, how do I want you again so soon? _ Maeglin fantasises about falling to his knees in front of the man, nuzzling at him and licking at his rod until it hardens fully, ready to fill his throat up to his best capability.

“No, I wasn’t cold,” he answers, surprised how softly his voice comes out.  _ Not after I migrated to the south like a fucking bird and discovered the tropic of your bedroom. _ “Your bed was… very warm.” Warmth still clings to a place deep inside as if Gothmog’s arms had somehow reached there, put a flame into his chest. 

“I’m glad,” Gothmog murmurs, smiling. “I… I was surprised to find you in it.”

Maeglin vaguely wonders if he should apologise for invading Gothmog’s space without asking but dismisses the thought in favour of losing himself in those gentle blue eyes. The wooden floor beneath his feet is warming up to him, and the sun is starting to warm up his skin as well, smoothing down the small hairs left standing at his arms. He rubs them down, a little bashful, feeling all sorts of out of place as he watches the other move closer, feeling the heat of his body radiate towards him.

“You look like a flame in sunrise,” Maeglin blurts, acutely aware of the intent look in Gothmog’s eyes and the way they’ve become aquamarine with a hint of green in this early hour. But it’s his skin – turned golden in a way which perfectly conveys the addicting heat of it – and his hair, no less golden but more blazing, with strands of rich yellows and candy and blood. He yearns to touch it, run his fingers through it, bury his nose into it, tease back the wild mess of it only to recreate it, put his mark on it. A light blush rises in Maeglin’s cheeks –  _ I went and said that? _

“My father's family call it being 'kissed by fire'...” Gothmog purrs. Putting two fingers under Maeglin’s chin to raise his face, he dips his head to kiss him sweetly, “but I think that’d be you, personally.” Smirking, he steals another kiss, enjoying the way Maeglin opens for him, presses into his body in the best way. 

Maeglin smiles, secretly treasuring the way his lips warm up beneath Gothmog’s. 

“Shower?” Gothmog asks when he finally pulls away, tracing Maeglin’s bottom lip with his thumb and shivering at the feel of his playful tongue darting out to swipe across the digit. Turning, he nearly trips over Patches who mews pathetically for her breakfast, sitting and staring up at him rather disapprovingly; she likes her feeding schedule is kept on track. 

Maeglin’s lips are still tingling when Gothmog turns away, a low curse escaping him when the small calico almost gets herself trampled. The way the big man and cat look at each other makes Maeglin smile behind Gothmog’s back – and  _ behind _ is what his eyes find next, the glorious bundle of muscle so round and tight Maeglin thinks he might be able to bounce a penny off it.

_ Few things look equally great from all angles. _

“Shower would be nice,” Maeglin murmurs, picking at a scab on his elbow. A look down reveals the extent of his scratches, though most are light and pink and haven’t quite reached through the surface. Good thing he had clipped his nails recently.

“ _ Yes _ , yes, Mistress Impatient,” Gothmog chuckles, bending to scratch at a small ear, “I’ll sort your breakfast first.” Walking towards the kitchen, still naked, he shakes his head at her, his steps accompanied by her annoyed meowing. Looking back at Maeglin with a slightly rueful grin, he gestures towards the door. “I left a towel for you…” Snapping to the task of feeding his kitten with alacrity reminiscent of his army days, Gothmog smiles at the sound of Maeglin’s footsteps.

Maeglin hesitates, looking over where Gothmog is busy attending to his furry little missy. The man doesn’t look up, utterly occupied with the can and the opener and the consistent little noises telling him to hurry up. Maeglin waits a few seconds longer, the invitation  _ right  _ there on his lips – yet after a moment longer he escapes the ripening golden glow of the living room and finds himself in the guest room instead, hand closing around a handle. 

Sighing to himself, Maeglin steps into the well-stocked – tastefully decorated – guest bathroom. It’s clean and smells nice – the mirror is spotless, the tiles like new –  _ Gothmog said this building was recently built, didn’t he? _ – and the towels left on the rack look fluffy and luxurious.

Basically, everything’s on the other end of the scale compared to what Maeglin has back home.

He relieves himself quickly and steps into the shower, unsurprised it doesn’t take ten minutes to wait for the water to warm up. Ranking it up to the border of warm and scalding, Maeglin scrubs at his face and belly and thighs, groaning with relief as the hot water eases the tension inhabiting his shoulders.

The stand is littered with bottles, brands Maeglin’s never heard of, but the stylish packages look expensive enough for him to not just squeeze a fat dollop over his palm. The shampoo doesn’t smell all manly – thumbing water off his eyes, Maeglin reads the label, dots connecting in his mind once more.

The panties make more sense now – there’s no way that woman isn’t a regular guest.

_ And why does it bother you so much? _ Maeglin asks himself, massaging his scalp to a fluffy lather while leaving the shower running, unwilling to stand there cold while shampooing himself.

_ You want him. You fucking  _ **_want_ ** _ him. Like something  _ **_permanent_ ** _. You’re in big trouble, László. _

“Tell me something I  _ don’t  _ know,” he murmurs while rinsing his hair, mentally reminding himself only crazy people talk to themselves.

_ He’s done with you. He didn’t want to come shower with you. _

_ He was feeding his fucking cat. _

_ He didn’t ask you to wait. He didn’t even look at you. _

Maeglin’s been careless – and now he’s paying for it.  _ It was just sex _ – but sex is something he could get from other places, and he doesn’t remember ever feeling like  _ this  _ after a night with someone. 

_ Is it just the fact that Gothmog held me after I fucked up with the wine? Is it that he let me choose, take my time? Is it that he genuinely seems to care enough to make it good? _

He’s seen this happening before – briefly and not often, but yes. There’s been other boys and girls, though younger than him, who’ve got someone to look after them, pull them out of misery to offer a glimpse of happiness. Usually it doesn’t last. One side always exposes their true colours in the end.

Maeglin’s eyes sting, and he blinks hard to keep the salt out of his shower. He doesn’t need this now. It’s bad enough to realise that he can’t have a peaceful thought without Gothmog holding him, because that’s a seriously dangerous place to be, but crying won’t fix anything.

He’ll need to talk to the guy. 

Eventually.

Just to give himself more time, he grabs a bottle which says  _ conditioner _ in the gold-rimmed label.

 

When Gothmog dares look up from Patches, who is once more a happy ball of affectionate fluff rather than the angry fury of a hungry demoness, Maeglin is gone. 

The slight hope – small and foolish, really – that had appeared with his morning fantasy, dies unspoken. He hears the light hum of water against tiles from the guest room, wondering if he ought to offer Maeglin….  _ what _ ,  _ exactly? An old pervert to ogle him while he cleans himself, removing all traces of their couplings from his person?  _

Scowling at himself, Gothmog strides back to his own bedroom, carefully not examining the thoughts that want him to go the opposite direction, want him to join Maeglin despite the lack of invitation, and see if he can rekindle a little of the magic from the gym. 

Not that last night  _ wasn’t _ magical, but Gothmog still isn’t sure it was right for him to give in to Maeglin’s desires – for Maeglin’s sake. This morning certainly couldn’t be considered magical – rutting like a savage beast with no care for consent or reciprocation is so unlike him as to be almost sickening – although the vision of Maeglin in the pale morning light comes close; the only thing marring that perfection the evidence of just how thoroughly Gothmog had debauched him earlier. 

Stepping into his shower, he glares down at his cock, determinedly not allowing the half-hard eagerness to run away with him, performing his ablutions with military precision and entirely on automatic, his mind full of worries. 

Maeglin is broken, he knows – he might be on the mend, and last night could have been a one-off, but he’s definitely not alright – and Gothmog worries that the wine will spark a downward spiral, yet at the same time it’s hardly his place to make sure Maeglin gets professional help for his conditions – whatever they are.

He shouldn’t want to do all those things, either, shouldn’t  _ want _ to keep him close, hold him, see if he can coax out the person hiding behind those dark eyes, tease out that wicked sense of humour and brilliance that he glimpsed the night before even amid the awkwardness and tears. 

Gothmog shouldn’t want Maeglin… but he does.

 

Maeglin thinks of those warm ocean eyes while running his fingers through his hair, slippery with the creamy, thick conditioner. Last night Gothmog’s eyes had spoken the same language as his hands – the pleasure had outdone the fear – and Maeglin, who usually prides himself on being careful with his heart, had offered himself to that fantasy like a common dreamy idiot. 

_ One of you is going to pull the rug, stupid. Which one is it going to be? _

Maeglin turns the water cold for the last twenty seconds, braving the icy shock just to restart his cycle of thoughts. Closing the tap, he fumbles for the towel, finding it warm as he wraps himself into it, towelling vigorously to chase away the cold he had welcomed but a moment ago. Still slightly shaky, he wraps the towel around his hips and opens the cabinet in search of a toothbrush. That too, has a selection of lotions and whatnots, their names in languages Maeglin can’t name, and he closes the cabinet with a bit too much force after locating a brush and a tube of toothpaste.

By the time he’s done with his teeth and finger-combed his hair back – surprisingly soft after that conditioner – Maeglin’s calmed down a little. Breathing deep, he pinches his brows and leans closer to the mirror to check his pores, picking at one or two before wiping his face with a fluffy pink cotton ball. His image is vaguely eerie, and as always it takes him a second to realise it’s his eyes. 

Somehow, after twenty-seven years, they still don’t belong to him.

 

It’s probably one of the fastest showers he’s had as a civilian, and Gothmog is already dressed and mostly ready for the day when Maeglin emerges from the guest room.

He is making tea; it’s a habit he picked up as a child – it can’t be broken now, and even though he hasn’t slept as much as he’d like, a cup of something warm will start the day nicely. 

Rinsing out the pot, he turns on the boiling tap, warming the ceramic before pouring away the water, a slightly guilty glance aimed at last night’s dishes and the pile of wine-stained salt on the floor. 

Scooping up the leaves – a strong Assam, today, to keep him alert – he adds them to the pot, turning the tap for another stream of perfectly hot water, silently praising the Cooker faucet system that functions as a kettle. 

Maeglin hesitates slightly, looking small and precious wrapped in one of the large green bath towels. 

“Tea?” Gothmog asks, almost involuntary, while his mind is busy imagining what would happen if he gave that towel a strategic tug in an opportune moment.

_ You’re quiet – and you’re fast _ , Maeglin thinks as he spots Gothmog in the kitchen, all dressed up, only his damp hair giving away what he’s been up to. He had hoped for a minute or two of solitude to hide the small bundle of lace wrapped tight around itself in the cage of his fist.

“Yes, please,” he says, stopped for a moment under the weight of those beautiful eyes. He manages a smile, small and tentative, and, muttering something about checking his messages, he shuffles to the rack where his jacket hangs. Quickly, he stuffs the panties into the pocket with a zipper and pulls out his phone from the breast pocket. The old thing is almost out of battery, but there’s just enough left for Maeglin to read through his messages.

There aren’t many, but Maeglin types a quick answer to one of them before stashing his mobile. Adjusting his towel a little he returns to the kitchen, his tight-lipped smile melting into something more genuine at how well the simple plaid shirt fits those broad shoulders. Gothmog’s not dressed for the office today – Maeglin suddenly realises he still hasn’t asked what it is he does apart from managing a gym – and Maeglin has to fight against the sudden lumberjack fantasies pulsing through his groin.

He really should dress himself – but with what? He’s got a vague image of Gothmog pulling his tee apart like paper, and… and he’s not going to wear the other shit. Just  _ no _ . Even the thought makes him feel a bit sick. “I thought you were more of the coffee-type,” he admits, distracting himself by hopping onto one of the barstools and arranging his towel-clad limbs into some semblance of modesty; he hopes he comes off just a little bit saucy.  _ Look what you could have had. _

“In the afternoon, at times,” Gothmog replies absentmindedly, locating a pair of mugs and pouring each of them a cuppa, “if I can’t have something else. I was raised with tea, though, and it’s probably too late to change the habit now…” Offering Maeglin a small smile, he adds, “I’m afraid we’ve only sugar or honey, if you take that – no milk.” 

“That’s fine. Sugar’s good.” Maeglin smiles back at the man, feeling the gesture come easier this time. He reaches for the cup, letting the heat sink into his fingertips through the ceramic. The tea smells good and rich and something Maeglin thinks he might enjoy. “Milk in tea is vile.”

Gothmog laughs. “Ye’d get on well with Maman,” he chuckles, setting down his own cup after a hearty swig of the unsweetened brew, “but best not let my Da hear you disparage such a staple of Utumnic life as a good cup’o’builder’s tea.” Moving to sit beside him, Gothmog drinks his tea, feeling the heat spread through his system. 

The warmth of the tea – as nice as it is – is nothing compared to the heat Maeglin feels radiating from Gothmog when he sits down beside him. 

Granted, Maeglin is almost naked, and suddenly even more aware of that fact.

Gothmog lets out a happy hum, stretching his arms above his head.

_ Now you’re just not playing fair, Lavalocks, _ Maeglin grumbles to himself, smiling a little, blowing into the mug to make the steaming surface flutter. “Mixed heritage can be… fun,” he settles on, watching Gothmog through the white-and-grey dwindling tendril. “There’s all that cherry-picking and piecing together your identity, gambling which side of the family to piss off.”

“Pissing off the Balrogath Clan would be the worse choice,” Gothmog considers, gesturing with one hand as he continues, “Maman’s family is much smaller, and while her brand of vengeance can be quite painful, it at least is unlikely to devolve into outright brawling…” Pausing, he grins at Maeglin. “The same cannot be said for my cousins on Da’s side.” 

Giving Maeglin a wink and setting down his mug, Gothmog walks towards the bedroom, shaking his head at the image in his mind, another loud chuckle making its way past his lips. 

Right there, that wink is  _ everything _ ; all the reasons Gothmog is Trouble with a capital T are  _ right there _ . Maeglin sips his tea, careful, finding the taste just as good as the aroma. 

“Finish your tea, Maeglin, I’ll find you something to wear,” Gothmog says. “Might have to be jogging stuff? You’re not exactly of a size to me,” he adds, glancing back over his shoulder at Maeglin whose skin seems translucently pale in the strengthening morning light.  _ I want to remember this. _

The offer for some clothes is a godsend, though he shares the apparent amusement at the thought of dressing up in Gothmog’s clothes. It had worked the previous night – the memory of Gothmog’s hungry gaze aimed at him when he wore his old shirt is something to treasure for years to come.

“It’s okay.” Closing his eyes, Maeglin breathes in the scent of the tea. “Just as long as I’m decent.” He’ll probably never have something quite like this again; not that he knows what  _ this  _ is, beyond the thought that he could almost give up coffee for it.  _ Almost. _

“As much as I appreciate the aesthetic value of your current appearance,” Gothmog murmurs, coming back to the kitchen, “let’s go for something a little less conspicuous in public.” He holds up a pile of folded clothes, taking in one last view of towel-clad Maeglin, only a little bit ashamed at the knowledge he will probably end up  _ enjoying  _ parts of this morning substituted into fantasy later. “I don’t think I’ve boxers that’d fit you, but try these?” he asks, pressing an old pair of sweatpants at Maeglin along with a simple tee with the gym’s fiery logo on the front. 

The drawstring might keep them decent –  _ not that Maeglin wearing my clothes would ever be anything but sinfully inspirational, of course _ – until Maeglin gets home. None of his trousers or jeans would stay on Maeglin’s hips – well, none that he’d admit to still owning, and the tights he wore for ballet at 16 are hidden deep in the dark of his closet along with the shoes he never could bear to chuck.  

“Unless you want me to take you home for a change of clothes before breakfast?” 

He’s dressed himself in a black muscle shirt and jeans, heavy safety boots on his feet – the rafters are going up and safety equipment is necessary even if he’s only visiting – with a sensible plaid button-up in deference to the chill nip in the air.

Maeglin’s midway fastening the drawstring around his hips when he stops, a couple of heartbeats passing before he answers, sounding light and upbeat: “No, that’s okay. These are good. And I don’t always wear underwear anyway, so no worry.” 

Gothmog tries not to think about that. 

He fails. 

Maeglin accepts the shirt, grinning, pulling it over his head and slipping his arms into the sleeves. “Thank you. I'll return them soon.”

“It’s fine, I don't wear them much,” Gothmog shrugs, “I run hot.”  _ Aulë’s forges, how inane can you be, Balrogath? Get your mind out of the bedroom.  _

_ You run hot alright _ , Maeglin thinks as he glances Gothmog over, appreciating the sight. He has a thing for an easy, practical look like that. A man at work.

“I’ve fed Patches, and your clothes are in the bag there – shall we?” Opening the door, Gothmog glances at his watch – the bistro is open even this early on Sunday morning. “Have to take the car today,” he decides, quite certain his libido can’t take the way Maeglin would cling to him –  _ wearing his clothes! _ – if they take the bike.

He doesn’t have proper kit, either, Gothmog suddenly realises, flushing slightly at the thought – it’s not like him to be unconcerned with the safety of another... but if he’d simply told Maeglin his address, he’d probably never have shown up, Gothmog thinks, justifying his choices to himself as best he can.

Maeglin slips into his jacket and pulls the beanie over his hair, picking up the plastic bag with his ruined clothes hidden behind a tight knot. He plans to dump the thing while walking home from wherever he manages to get Gothmog to drop him. 

“The car is fine,” he replies belatedly, giving Gothmog a rueful smile, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but my arse might appreciate the car seat more than the bike, right now.”

Gothmog chuckles softly, tempted to pat aforementioned arse as he hoists his own backpack – he may be able to wrangle a packed lunch out of Madame at The Hobbit Hole – onto one shoulder. 

“Onwards and downwards, then!” he says, hitting the button for the elevator. “Where is your clinic? I was planning for breakfast at The Hobbit Hole – do you know it?”

“I know the place,” Maeglin shifts from foot to foot, the bag rustling in his hand. He’s somehow almost glad he didn’t have to wear his own crap – now that he’s spent the night in a very nice, clean place, he’s more conscious of how mouldy everything he owns smells. “I can walk from there. The clinic isn’t far.” He looks at Gothmog, lifting his hand to gently loop an errand lock of copper hair behind his ear. The man doesn’t even look  _ tired _ . So unfair.

Gothmog’s heart drops a little. Going to see a therapist is a private thing, he gets that, he  _ really  _ does... but he has that nagging feeling from before, that suspicion that Maeglin won’t go on his own. 

“It really is no bother,” he tries, leading the way out of the elevator and unlocking the car – he shoots a longing look at the convertible, but there’s no way he will be bringing that to a construction site, no matter how much he wants to take Maeglin out for a spin. “I’ve plenty time to take you there.”

_ Please, please don’t. Don’t make me keep lying to you. _

The clipped, hollow sound of the car unlocking comes as if ordered, delivered on the sigh of a prayer, giving Maeglin a reason to seem as if he’d forgotten his ears upstairs. 

He’d half-expected the convertible – which is parked right in front of the etched sign bearing Gothmog’s name – but this one’s all big and new and luxurious, and Maeglin’s instantly in love. “Ni- _ ice _ ,” he whistles, low and impressed as he sees the lights flash on the car Gothmog unlocked, sincerely amazed – and a little turned on – by the black glossy  _ menacing _ machine.  It makes him think back to the car Turgon helped him buy when he first got his license; it had been fine and new enough... until Maeglin crashed it, that is, escaping with his life and a broken clavicle. He hasn’t owned a car since. “Does this go fast?” 

A small glow of pride fills Gothmog, making him smile at the genuine admiration on Maeglin’s face. “It’s nice, yes,” he agrees, “and economic, too… and of course it goes fast.” Winking at Maeglin, he opens his door, sliding into his seat and feeling the soft fabric welcome him. “My darling Rose,” he adds, nodding at the red sportscar when Maeglin has slipped into the passenger seat, “is strictly for indulgent pleasure trips – usually I go up along the coast to this small B&B that an old friend owns. It’s a good scenic ride.” Thuri often accompanies him – or steals the car when she wants to splurge on her girlfriend a bit with a trip to the seaside resort her step-brother runs – she’s always enjoyed the purr of engines and the wind in her hair. “This is more useful as a day-to-day car however.” 

Throwing Gothmog an impressed, toothy look, Maeglin breathes in the scent of leather – and feels a little aroused for it. The convertible looks all lovely and so, but this... this is just fucking glorious, too. “I guess having a car like this makes going to work a little more fun.” He's quick to study the sound system, wondering what kind of music Gothmog listens to while driving to work, or if he's one of those morning programme-people...  _ Please talk to me about your car _ .

“Admittedly it’s also slightly self-indulgent,” Gothmog says. “You may have noticed that I am a big man… it’s surprisingly difficult to find a comfortable car when you’re my height.” Backing out of his spacious parking spot, Gothmog enjoys the silence of the car’s engine, quietly amused at the little boy in a toy store look on Maeglin’s face as he touches the center console. “Of course, she gets good mileage, too, and there’s space for all the things I want to carry around.”

“Yeah. That’s reasonable,” Maeglin says, nodding, though  _ reasonable _ isn’t something he’d use to describe his own dream car. “I bump my head all the time, and I’m only one-eighty-three... It must be a gigantic pain for you.” He shifts his leg, quietly enjoying the way he can stretch them comfortably in front of him. The beam blocking the exit lifts smoothly in front of the car, an older man lifting his hand in a half-wave as they pass.

“That’s Jacques,” Gothmog says, waving at Jacques as they leave the parking garage, “an older vet; wounded in action in ‘05.” That was a terrible year in the war with Mordor – one of the reasons he enlisted, himself, if Gothmog’s honest with himself. “He runs the building security; he has a small flat on the ground floor and takes care of the door pretty much around the clock whether he’s being paid or not.” He doesn’t say ‘ _ If you ever come round looking for me, Jacques will let you in _ ’, but he thinks it, wondering how to phrase the offer to avoid offending Maeglin’s sense of independence and self-reliance. 

“That’s dedication.” For a fleeting moment Maeglin wonders if his father knows  _ him _ , too, but pushes the thought away as an irrelevant. Eöl might have pointed him towards Gothmog’s gym, but that was due more to the price of the classes than his army days – the prison information network is more gossipy than the knitting group at a home for senior citizens, at times.

“He is a good man, is Jacques,” Gothmog nods thoughtfully, turning left.  _ A good man who didn't come back whole _ . Jacques is too proud to take charity or suffer pity, but he is willing to work for another vet who knows what he’s about and won’t judge him. Idril had found him, a few years back, living under an overpass bridge. She had been out of her mind trying to get through to him when she called Glorfindel’s Father on a whim and discovered that old Lávar actually knew the guy Jacques. Gothmog had come into the deal in a roundabout manner through Glorfindel and some very good scotch and now Jacques works for him. It works; Jacques was the first person he had helped Idril help... but not the last. 

“Some men are good enough to survive,” Maeglin murmurs, his words more maudlin than his tone. 

“Some men are  _ lucky _ ,” Gothmog corrects, but then changes his mind, “and some men who  _ live _ ... would have been luckier off dead.” Merging easily into traffic, already dreaming of the lavish breakfast platter served up by Madame Cotton, Rosie Gamgee’s mother, .

Maeglin relaxes in his seat, settling one leg over the other in a way his father would frown at and taps his long fingers against the window pane. On a whim, he presses the button to slide the glass down, wanting to feel the wind on his face. The air rushes in, beating his skin, making him feel more refreshed, though a quick glance in the wing mirror is enough to tell him he has more than a little dark circle action going on.

Glancing at Maeglin, Gothmog smiles to himself, watching those dark strands flutter in the cool morning air. “You have nice curls,” he blurts out, blushing at himself. “I mean.... your hair wasn’t that curly yesterday…” Maeglin has fucking  _ ringlets  _ and Gothmog wants to tug playfully on one, kissing him until that sadness leaves his eyes.

Maeglin blushes at the sudden mention of his coiling hair. “It... has a will of its own.” He looks in the mirror, frowns at his own image. Gothmog is right. Stupid curls. “Water. Sweat.” His phone vibrates in his pocket, telling him the battery has finally run out. He ignores it. “ _ A pillow _ . Take your pick – this happens.” 

His hair had behaved relatively nicely for once, but Gothmog’s bed turned it into a frightful tangle. The stupid expensive conditioner hasn’t helped much; it just seems to have turned his usual frizz into weird soft loops which stretch and bounce back like elastic bands. Maeglin can’t say he likes it – he often straightens his hair with an iron, but that is not a detail he’s going to share with Gothmog, eyeing his soft waviness with some envy.

Yet he can’t deny that the compliment – even if it is aimed at a feature so ridiculous – warms him up inside, makes him smile a little while twirling a finger around a lock of his hair in an absent manner, looking at Gothmog and casually noticing how nice his arms look steering the wheel. The hair on them is a nice mix of golden and red tones, complimenting the skin beneath – even that is somehow warmer, a bit unusual for a natural redhead, and of course fucking striking.

“I like them,” Gothmog admits, staring straight ahead and hoping that his beard will hide his blush at least a little, cursing the way his fair skin – even though he’s got a bit of tan this summer, he’s never going to be able to pretend that he’s not a redhead – heats up, his cock adding its full agreement to his assessment; curly hair is one of his Good Things. “It suits you, I think…”

Maeglin smiles, feeling fond amusement at Gothmog’s sudden unease. It’s so... cute? He can’t come up with another word for it. “You do? Thanks.” Then he adds, blushing a little himself: “I like your freckles.”  _ What is wrong with you? _ – he realises he’s not used to this, this kind of words offered so freely. Nor is he used to being given a drive after. It feels almost sickly gallant suddenly, but Maeglin refuses to let it bother him too much. They’re going on a  _ breakfast date _ , for fuck’s sake.

“My freckles?” Gothmog chuckles softly, making another left. This is nice, chatting with Maeglin about things that aren’t quite so heavy. Maybe it’s a little backwards, but that’s life, perhaps, always throwing curveballs at people. “A family trait – I have only a few in winter, but once the sun is out they seem to sprout everywhere; Da’s clan is maybe 80% freckled redheid bastards…” Grinning, he runs a hand through his still-damp tresses, smoothing the long strands back, “and Maman is strawberry-blonde, so I come by them honestly.” Turning his head to give Maeglin a small smile, he steers them through the sparsely populated streets.

Maeglin wonders how that skin looks during the winter, all paled down. No doubt beautiful, but maybe in the same way bare trees are. “Good genetics. I’m sadly very… monochromatic…” He leans forward, curious about the sound system all over again now that the ice seems to be broken once more. “A few silly spots and that’s it…” His fingers find the volume button, twisting it generously – and the result isn’t quite what he had expected.

“I like it,” Gothmog tells him, the light melody filling the car. “Ludovico Einaudi,” he says, catching the disbelief Maeglin can’t quite hide, “one of my favourite contemporary composers.” He’d been feeling a need for the soft comfort of classical music on Friday afternoon, heading home from a lunch-meeting that hadn’t gone to plan, and classical music always allows him to rest his mind. Shooting Maeglin a wry look, he adds: “Not what you expected when you turned it on, eh?”

Admittedly a little stunned, Maeglin leans back against the seat, his hands coming to rest on his thighs. It’s a fucking piano fluttering into his ears, borrowing some surrealistic touch to the moment. He’s not sure what he expected, anymore – nothing this sweet, but then again, it’s hardly the first time Gothmog surprises him.

“Mmm… The Offspring, maybe? Foo Fighters? Whitesnake if we’re stretching it?” He flushes, weirded out by how wrong he was. “Something more... rocky. Not that this isn’t cool,” he hastens to add, flushing slightly as the words trip over each other trying to get out of his mouth, “I get the appeal, kind of… But when I thought of  _ classics... _ I was thinking of The Doors – not modern classi- _ cal  _ music.” Contemporary classical music might not be his jam, but at least they can talk over the sound of it; it remains to be seen whether that is for the better or worse… but Maeglin does enjoy the sound of Gothmog’s voice far more than just a bit. 

“Well, I do like rock,” Gothmog laughs, “if you hit the aux, you’ll probably find what you expected – among other things, admittedly – but sometimes I need something gentle to wind down…” 

Maeglin decides to leave the music as it is, even if the curiosity burns him a little. “So how did someone like you – I don’t.. uhm... sorry, it’s a stereotype…” Maeglin trails off, suddenly aware that his entire face is bright red. 

“How a guy like me ended up enjoying classical music?” Gothmog grins cheekily, enjoying the blush that stains Maeglin’s cheeks when he nods. It’s unexpectedly endearing. “I–,” he pauses, changes tack, and continues, “ _ my mother _ is a trained pianist. She used to be a ballerina but a bad landing shattered her ankle and took her out of dancing professionally for good.”  _ And I spent more than a decade dancing ballet myself. _ But he doesn’t voice that information, even if the sorrow of having to give up his dream of joining the Vanyarin Ballet Company has mellowed over the years. “I’d say it’s her influence. Da taught me to play the bagpipes, too. I do a mean Hedwig’s Theme.” Humming a few bars of the iconic melody of the Harry Potter films, Gothmog grins.

Maeglin looks a bit stunned. “You’re… full of surprises.” He smiles then, turning his head to look out of the window before muttering something that sounds terribly like  _ book three is the best one. _

“Really?” Gothmog asks, putting up a wounded face, “No love for the dashing – and totally gay, I don’t care about Chang – Cedric Diggory?” Part of him feels a funny sort of warmth at the thought that Maeglin likes things  _ he _ likes… even if he’s obviously got his priorities skewed somewhere. 

Maeglin huffs, then shrugs a little, laying his head against the headrest. There’s a hint of a smile still playing at his lips. “I was young and edgy once, and I’m too old to fight the nostalgia now. Besides, it would’ve been an ill fit – I don’t think I could’ve dealt with a Hufflepuff half as long as he could’ve endured me.” 

“Wanting the dashing Gryffindor hero for your very own then?” Gothmog wonders, smirking. “Personally I’ve always been a sucker for the brainy ones. A fit little Ravenclaw would do me well, I think. Keep me on my toes.”

Maeglin stays quiet for a while, unsure how seriously he should take that question. It’s like asking him what his type is, and well… “Don’t know about a hero. I’d rather he has a good head on his shoulders. Unorthodox ideas. Interesting conversations? Yeah, I like those.” He grins then, giving Gothmog a meaningful look. “I might be geeking out, but I think this one counts.”

Gothmog’s laugh, loud and booming, fills the car. “You’re something else, Maeglin,” he chuckles, “but I think you’re right.” Turning on the signal for the small back alley that leads to a cleverly hidden parking area, Gothmog continues, gesturing at the gate, “There should be an access pass in the glovebox – says Bagshot Row or something – could you find it?”

Maeglin opens the glove department, rummaging through the miscellaneous pile of old receipts and notes to locate the pass. “This one?” he asks as he shows his find, though the lettering remains loud and clear on the plastic card, echoing Gothmog’s words.

“Aye,” Gothmog replies, picking the card from Maeglin’s fingers and rolling the window down with the press of a button. Feeding the card into the slot, he waits for the beam to open, finding himself a space he knows will be shaded by the large cherry tree for the next hour or so but not in too much danger of being shat on by pigeons. “I often park here – it’s a good location.” He pays for the privilege, too, and enjoys the half-mile walk to the current site. There’s never proper space to park near construction in the city, and most of what he needs to bring with him fits in various pockets and his backpack. “And Madame makes some of the best food in town.” Patting his trim stomach, Gothmog grins and kills the engine. “I think she’s trying to fatten me up.” 

Closing the car door, he circles round, wondering if Maeglin’s earlier unease will return, make him bolt. Gothmog has tried not to be pushy, but something in him wants to make sure that his slight lover is really going to be fine – even if it means taking him to get help himself. Part of him wants to call Idril at the shelter – she’s seen most kind of emotional or abusive traumas during the course of her work and she’d know what to do for Maeglin – but the rest of him knows what a spectacularly bad idea such a breach of trust would be. 

“This way,” he says quietly, one hand resting lightly against the small of Maeglin’s back, keeping him close and moving, though not so close that he’s crowding into his personal space. The big hand at the small of Maeglin’s back awakens a couple of different feelings – a hint of annoyance, even, as if he’s being steered, but beneath that rises an entirely unusual sense of safety, one which leaves him slightly confused and stuck within a bundle of thoughts until the sweet potpourri of scents invades his nostrils, causing his stomach to grumble within five seconds.

Holding the door open, Gothmog lets Maeglin enter first, feeling a smile spread across his face at the warm scent of baking that permeates the air inside.

“Chér Madame,” he calls, “ _ petit-déjeuner pour deux, s'il vous plaît _ .” Chivvying Maeglin into the homey bistro, he waves at a few familiar faces. 

“A! Mon cher Gothmog!” Madame Cotton cries dramatically, swooping down upon them in a cloud of pink ruffles and the scent of her lilac perfume. 

It’s honestly the most beautiful place, the kind which might be from a romantic sitcom or a storybook, all carefully chosen warm tones and Vanyarin influences. Definitely not a place Maeglin would frequent – he feels so out of place and shabby compared to the other clientele – but certainly a place he can appreciate. He offers a small, polite smile towards the people Gothmog’s greeting, but then his vision is filled with an energised flurry of pink speaking in a foreign tongue, words swift and flowery and singsong. It’s a tiny woman, pretty like a potted flower, and Gothmog’s greeting her with an easy familiarity that Maeglin thinks speaks of long history.

Gothmog grins. “Morning, Olive,” he says, bending to kiss her cheeks – Madame Cotton is shorter than anyone he knows; saying hello to her has required him to bend down since age 10, but she's an institution in these parts. “Think you could rustle up some of of your fluffy pancakes for two starving boys?”

“For my darling Minette’s leetle boy?!” she exclaims theatrically – Olive Cotton only seems to grow more Vanyarin each year, no matter that she has lived in Tirion since she was a young lady – “Anything you like.”

The half-terrified expression melts from his face slower than he’d prefer, but when Gothmog glances at him, Maeglin’s smile is crooked and teasing. “Your mother’s name is  _ Minette _ ?”

“Ooooh you ‘ave brought a boy!” Madame Cotton exclaims, catching Maeglin’s hand and towing him forward, making Gothmog chuckle at the look of surprise on his face. Olive may be tiny, but she is stronger than she looks. “An ‘e ees un bon garçon, no?” Eyeing Gothmog, she winks. “I ‘ave alwais zaid you need a boy with a good strong nose – like Noldor emperor, this one, no?” Patting Maeglin’s hand, Olive drags him further into the room, stopping at a picture on the wall that Gothmog recognises. He chuckles, gesturing at the wall when Maeglin glances at him. “Zees ees Minette!” Olive declares, pointing at the picture. 

In the black-and-white picture, Olive is easily recognisable, standing next to another young woman with pale hair. Minette Balrogath née Cuvier did not live up to her first name, being almost three heads taller than her best friend; Gothmog doesn’t just get his genes from his father’s side of the family, after all, though he is willing to bet that the innate grace of movement that had made ballet so easy was all her doing.

“My mother was a premature baby,” he explains softly, “she was named Minette because she was small and not expected to live very long... but she did.” He nods at the photograph. “Minette Alassindë Athénaïs Cuvier married Thaurlach Culumaica William Balrogath,” he adds, pointing to a different picture a little further down the wall. The obvious affection in Gothmog’s voice while he’s talking about his family rubs at a sore spot inside Maeglin, but he feels better thinking about the fine work his parents have done with their son. That much is starting to become painfully obvious. Smiling, his black eyes follow the motion of Gothmog’s hand, and then he’s stepping closer, looking at the handsome – and exceedingly tall – pair pictured. He can see much of his father in Gothmog, glancing between him and the photo, but there’s also something about Gothmog’s mother which seems familiar.

It's not even a full thought, more like a short glimpse into something Maeglin couldn’t have been able to witness, but something in him tells him it’s that stubbornness, that will to  _ live _ , which had seen to Mrs Balrogath’s survival, to stand strong and beautiful in her own wedding picture and to raise such a level-headed child. 

“And had… me,” Gothmog finishes. He used to be embarrassed about the candid shot on the bistro wall of himself as a chubby baby in a sunhat and diaper at the beach, but he’s no longer a teenager and he likes the way maman is laughing in the picture too much to care that maybe showing off baby pictures of himself is moving miles too swiftly in his wooing of Maeglin. 

Maeglin can’t help the small, almost inaudible gasp when he notices the baby with flaming hair sticking out from under the blue sunhat in the next photo, one that in an instant becomes his favourite. It’s almost odd to have photographic proof that Gothmog was once that tiny. 

He looks up at Gothmog, his eyes softened with unexpected emotion he’s quick to file away for later study. “You have a beautiful family.” His stomach gives another low growl halting whatever Gothmog was about to say; the air in here smells good enough to eat, a mixture of cinnamon and fresh bread and coffee. It’s a torture of a very special kind, Maeglin thinks, giving the pair an apologetic look.

“You ‘ave not  _ fed  _ ze poor boy?!” Olive exclaims, tutting at him and muttering away in rapid Vanyarin that leaves no space for protest. Gothmog follows along good-humouredly – he’s used to Olive’s antics – though Maeglin looks a little meek at her prodding. “Angie!”

“We  _ just  _ got here, ye auld besom,” he finally groans, pulling out a seat and nodding at Angela. “I’ll have the usual, Angie-luv, and Maeglin needs a menu.” 

Olive tuts at him again. “I know our Rosie zais as you needed zhopping,” she grumbles. 

“Yes, Olive, but I was too  _ busy _ ,” Gothmog replies pointedly, unable to stop himself glancing at Maeglin with something that’s probably too close to a ‘cat that got the cream’-grin on his face. Olive grins at him like only a woman who’s had 5 children can grin, and pats him on the shoulder before swanning off with a loud exclamation of ‘Frederiqué! Darling!’ at the woman who just entered, a toddler on her hip. 

Gothmog sighs, giving Maeglin a slightly apologetic smile. “Olive can be a bit…” 

Maeglin answers Gothmog’s smile with his own, shrugging out of his jacket and sticking his beanie into the sleeve. He accepts the menu graciously and swiftly reads through it, trying not to frown at the prices – the reasonable part of his mind tells him these aren’t even exceptionally high, just normal bistro range for what Maeglin knows. He’s still worried, trying to remember how much money he had in his wallet.

“Overbearing?” Angela suggests, grinning. Gothmog chuckles. “Well then, gents, what can I do you for this fine Sunday morning?” 

Good thing Maeglin likes pancakes, he decides, looking at the prices; it’s one of the lowest priced items on the menu.

“Pancakes, please,” he says, offering the menu back to this Angela with a smirk he hopes convincing enough, “and coffee. Black, with sugar.”

“Nothing else?” Gothmog wonders. “Maybe a fruit platter – do you have some of Gamgee’s strawberries?” he adds in an aside at Angie, who smiles.

“Already on your order, coz,” she nods, giving him a cheeky wink, “ _ with _ cream. You know, you and that hell-beast you call a pet have a lot in common…” Smiling sweetly at Maeglin, presenting her most angelic goldilocks face at him, she adds: “I’ll get you that coffee, sweetheart – maybe you’ll wake up and realise you’re on a breakfast date with this great lummox!” Laughing, she reaches up to ruffle Gothmog’s hair before skipping away. 

Gothmog blushes slightly. “That’s Angie – she’s one of Olive’s nieces, I think – I used to play princess tea parties with her when she was a wean and she never lets me forget it.” Shaking his head fondly, Gothmog shrugs. “Family, eh, what can you do?”

Maeglin tries to think of Gothmog as a young kid in a princess dress, but that’s almost as impossible as shoving solid threes into binary code, or three large Bad Dragons into an untried hole.

“Heh – is that where that Princess-thing comes from?” he teases with a voice low and private, folding his arms and rumbling the lace tablecloth under his elbows. “You left me wondering with that one, I admit.” His eyes can’t help following the lock of displaced red hair forming an adorable loop over the freckled forehead – the desire to lean in and gently sweep at it is almost unbearable.

“Princess-thing?” Gothmog frowns at him, wondering what Maeglin is getting at.  _ I possibly watched too many princess movies with tiny wee gels when I was younger… but still, what??  _ “Do you think I look like a Disney Princess?” A grin appears on his face. “I call the redheaded girl with the bow and arrows –  _ you  _ can be… hmmm… Snow White!” 

Maeglin raises an eyebrow – calling someone a fucking  _ princess  _ while bedding them seems like a too thick of a choice to be anything but deliberate, but he chooses to play along for now, anyway, unwilling to start a detailed discussion about their shared fun in public. “ _ Skin white as snow, lips red as blood, hair black as _ ebony… and nose of a… what did she call it,  _ Noldor emperor _ ?”

Tilting his head, Gothmog studies Maeglin. Then he laughs, bright with mirth. “Well, you maybe do have a nose like a painting.” 

_ Abort.  _ **_ABORT_ ** _.  _

Flushing, he rubs his neck, slightly awkward, shifting in his chair. “I… like your face. It’s interesting.” 

_ Fuck’s sake, Balrogath, that means  _ **_stop talking!_ **

Clamping his mouth shut on whatever other inanities might spill out –  _ next his eyes are probably like inky pools of bloody midnight or something, what the ever-loving…  _ – Gothmog grabs for the glass of water before him, quietly wishing Angie would hurry up. If he stuffs his mouth with food, this amount of unwanted sappiness wouldn’t be able to flow out and assault the guy. 

_ That laugh is something adorable _ , Maeglin thinks, his lips tilting upwards at the sight and sound of it – it consumes him so that he almost misses the compliment after, one which makes his face heat up with a mixture of shy delight and embarrassment. “ _ Interesting _ … I like interesting,” he murmurs, brushing back his unruly hair. “I think that’s better for imagination, no? Beautiful things get boring after a while. You’ve got to know when to stop trying to make something perfect.” He smiles, shakes his head. “Too deep? It’s too early for this kind of shit.” He looks up at the sound of footsteps, nostrils flaring at the smell of good coffee. Saliva pools under his tongue, and Maeglin has to swallow it down before thanking Angela, wary of a leaking lip. 

“You’re a star, Ange,” Gothmog grins, seeing the amount of food on his platter and feeling his stomach growl in response.

“Dig in, boys!” Angie beams at them, sliding a heaping tower of pancakes before Maeglin and an equally heaping platter of assorted breakfast foods before Gothmog. He, too, was afforded a few pancakes, though he attacks the eggs first – scrambled and fluffy golden – with a heartfelt groan of satisfaction. The tea that magically appears at his right hand – the benefit of eating in a place where you know the proprietor and most the staff is not having to order because they anticipate your desires – is made to perfection, hot and sweetened with a touch of honey. 

The space between them is cluttered with delicacies, and Maeglin has to admit he’s impressed – he throws a longing look towards the strawberries, unsure when he last tasted one. They are big and fat and red and glossy, but the pancakes are little pieces of art as well. He’s not sad about eating them at all; the syrup is all sorts of good and sticky, and the pancakes are fluffy and golden and tasty as hell. He makes an appreciative sound and raises his gaze just in time. 

“Strawberry?” Gothmog offers, pinching the green stem of a plump red berry and dipping it in the sweet whipped cream before offering it to Maeglin.

_ Well. _ There’s only one way to take it without making a mess. Maeglin drops his fork and leans forward, keeping his gaze on Gothmog’s face and trying to pretend that flush of his cheeks is the only part of him giving away his current thoughts. He closes his lips around the strawberry, feeling the soft whipped cream coat his tongue and Gothmog’s fingertips meet his skin.

It’s the best fucking strawberry he’s ever had.

Gothmog has to swallow, watching those lips close around the cream-covered strawberry and making a memory of the night before surge to the forefront of his mind, those reddened lips stretching around the plumpness of something else entirely; the resultant moan from Maeglin is the same. 

A heady wave of longing washes through him, pulsing in his groin.

Looking at Maeglin, Gothmog knows that if they had been at  _ home _ , he’d have swept up the strawberries and the cream and dragged Maeglin into the bedroom for more experiments with the sweet fruits.

Drawing back his hand, fingers tingling with the remembrance of touch, he draws another berry through the fluffy cream, popping it into his mouth and enjoying the gush of juice over his tongue. 

Gothmog’s heavy look makes the heat stick to Maeglin’s cheeks. He meets his eyes as long as he can and then lets his gaze veer down to his plate where half of his pancakes remain, next to his fork which is unfortunately syrupy after he’d misplaced it. He sighs softly and licks his fingers clean before wiping the handle of the fork, resuming eating and sipping his sweetened black coffee while trying to ignore what’s going on below the table level.

“Good pancakes?” Gothmog asks, popping a syrup-drizzled piece of crispy bacon into his mouth. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles, smiling awkwardly with his mouth full. He feels that if he looks up, his eyes will say entirely too much – there’s so much  _ want _ in him, so thick and volatile that Maeglin’s genuinely afraid for himself. He vehemently ignores the clock on the wall and focuses on his senses instead, the way everything smells and looks and feels, and still he can’t help thinking hours back to the way their bodies tangled, sweaty and hot and throbbing.

“Thank you for bringing me here.” Maeglin finally looks up, a wave of something tugging at him from the inside. “And…  _ thank you _ .”

The last fifteen something hours have felt so right and so wrong – right, because there’s been such intense moments of happiness and satisfaction, and wrong because it’s like Maeglin’s been yanked into a whole different universe, sucked into a mirror world where everything’s cotton candy and sugar and kindness and syrup drizzled in various shapes of loopy hearts.

“Thank you for coming,” Gothmog murmurs, daring to reach out to squeeze Maeglin’s hand. Drawing back, he takes a few minutes to focus on his own plate, trying to calm the fire that Maeglin so easily makes roar in his ears, his blood thrumming through his veins. “Hopefully not the last time we’ll see each other…” He’s mumbling, though he really  _ does _ hope that Maeglin won’t just disappear from his life as suddenly as he seems to have made himself at home. Smiling shyly, he thinks about eating Sunday breakfast with Maeglin  _ every _ week, chiding himself for being sappy but enjoying the images all the same. 

The rest of the meal passes in soft conversation, Olive Cotton’s food filling both empty bellies with happiness. 

 

 

 

“He said to bring the check,” Angie says, nodding at the empty chair that Gothmog abandoned to duck into the loos, as she slides a small folder onto the table, gathering up the assorted collection of empty plates and crockery their sumptuous meal has left behind. 

Maeglin tears his gaze from the window, looking up at the sound of a friendly voice and nodding. The good thing is that he gets to peek at the total on his own first before trying to figure out how the hell he’s going to save his face. He could say his wallet is in the gym bag? That would sound just the right amount convenient, though the idea of bailing out from his share like that stings him in a bad way.

He pulls the receipt from between the folder and stares at the number with mute horror. It’s close to his weekly food budget – if he’s having a good week.

_ This is going to be an embarrassing end to this date. _

Determined to somehow salvage his nerves, Maeglin does the thing which usually settles them, though he can’t quite shake the feeling he’s got his hope stuck at the back of his tongue and if he swallows or even breathes, it’s gone. Trying the pen on the back of his hand first, he begins to doodle, starting with the basic shape of a head and then face, penning in the expressive eyes and smiling lips, filling in curls in loose, flowing shapes. Maeglin isn’t a portrait maker, not exactly, but he thinks he’s decent enough at it if the viewer isn’t too familiar with art. Midway, he shakes his hand and arm, letting his tense shoulder lose its rigidness, and bends over his work, the size and glossy surface of the paper lending their own challenge…

_ It’s not horrible, at least. _

“Olive’s gonna wanna keep that,” Gothmog remarks, coming to a halt and looking over Maeglin’s shoulder. “You’ve a good eye – oops.”

Maeglin doesn’t even see the long thick line running across his tiny drawing first, not with his poor heart fucking racing in his throat after missing two beats. It takes him a moment this time – he was too damn occupied, too into his zone – to recover, to look up at Gothmog with something besides dismay and primal anxiety.

“I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his head, letting the pen drop from his fingers, “you move very quietly and I – I’m a bit jumpy.” The blush has probably lingered on his face for a moment, but Maeglin thinks he’s feeling it belatedly, lowering the pen beside the receipt and trying to recover some sense of normalcy. “Yes, I… draw.”

“It’s good.” Gothmog smiles apologetically, filled with the happiness of good food and pleasant company. He didn’t  _ mean _ to startle Maeglin, and the small doodle is a lot better than what he could have managed even with hours to spare. “You ready to leave?” Picking up the small folder, he hums a gentle tune as he studies the drawing, only slightly marred by the line going through it.

Maeglin bites his lip, hesitating while watching Gothmog, all carefree and handsome and renewed with good breakfast, and here he is – struggling to get his jacket on, arms too numb to slip into the sleeves without a fight. He manages finally, pushing the chair under the table with his knee –  _ screech _ – and follows Gothmog, trying to  _ mentally _ stall him for something reasonable to say.

It shouldn’t be such a big deal, but somehow he’s made his brain just as anxious as his heart and the amount of cash in his wallet a measure of his own worth. Some other day, he could have had enough to handle this, but he hasn’t been paid for his latest job this week, and he’d settled a couple of debts the other day, and…

“Gothmog,” he tries, talking to the broad back, “about the bill –”

“I’ve settled with Olive already,” Gothmog says, turning to flash Maeglin his beautiful, boyish grin. _ “Merci beaucoup, _ ” he continues, kissing Olive on each wrinkled cheek, “ _ le petit-déjeuner etait délicieux, comme toujours. _ ” 

Maeglin gawks. So much for stressing years off his life – in hindsight, he should’ve seen this coming. Gothmog doesn’t seem the type to be stingy over shit like this. “Th-thanks.”

 

Back outside, Gothmog glances at Maeglin, wondering if he can allow himself to ask for a kiss goodbye and sighs at the realisation that he’s already taken more than enough advantage of Maeglin’s person for the day. 

For a location so well-hidden, Olive Cotton’s Vanyarin bistro is a popular breakfast place. Maeglin has to squeeze closer to Gothmog to let a mother with a baby carriage pass, his arm brushing against the hard, hot chest in a way that sends a spark of electricity burning through his veins. 

“Are you sure I can’t drop you off?” Gothmog asks, catching Maeglin by the upper arms when he stumbles. It breaks Gothmog’s heart to think he’ll stay away from the help he needs, even if dropping him off at a clinic isn’t a guarantee that he’ll actually get help. “It’s not an imposition. Really.” 

_ Let me help you. _

Maeglin swallows, taste of syrup and coffee still thick and lovely on his tongue.

A tailpipe going off somewhere further down the busier street drowns out his first attempt at speech, and he waits for a second of calm, eyes travelling to look up into Gothmog’s ocean blues. They are so fucking genuine it’s unfair. Innocent, somehow, but not without a hint of something marring them. It’s but a nuance, a smidgen of pain, maybe. 

_ He’s worried about me. _

“It’s okay,” he starts, more insistent than he meant, though he doesn’t pull away, “it’s really okay – I can find my way.” He wants to say much more – lie a little more to give Gothmog a dose of peace, spill a couple of truths to go with it for his own conscience. But words like that aren’t meant for times like these, and Maeglin’s much more acquainted with desperate measures regardless. 

He’s usually so much less  _ grateful  _ after a night of passion. 

Of course, usually he feels he has much less to lose… if anything at all.

There’s just too many  _ buts _ to everything. Too many crumbling walls, too many questions, too many unwanted answers…Gothmog opens his mouth to argue, but the words die when Maeglin’s fingers trail up his arms and into his hair. Maeglin can’t get over how soft the strands are, delving into the flaming locks, tugging just a little, enough that when he rises on his tip-toes, he finds the delectable lips. Feeling the gentle scratch of Gothmog’s beard against his cheeks, he picks at those soft lips till they part, and slips in his tongue, hot and determined.

Gothmog’s hands come to rest on Maeglin’s hips without him realising, rubbing gently. 

_I can have this, at least._ _Just a little something to last me… remind me that someone like you exists._

Sighing into the kiss, Gothmog floats along with Maeglin’s touch, his earlier apprehensions forgotten. Tugging him closer he licks his way into that soft mouth, exploring Maeglin’s slick heat once more, feeling the memory of  _ more _ stir in his groin. Holding him close, enjoying the sudden intimacy, Gothmog smiles, pulling back for a moment to kiss Maeglin’s nose before returning to his sweet lips.

The lie is almost believable, Maeglin feels, breathing in Gothmog’s soft sigh, making a good memory for himself to keep in the most secret part of his heart  _ just in case _ . 

A phone rings, the tune one of the newest Angband metal ballads, bringing Gothmog out of the dreamy kiss with a start, pulling him back to reality. 

Maeglin considers himself a fan of Angband, but he thinks he’s never disliked them more than he does now. He pulls back a step, attempting a smile though his lips only remember the basium interruptus, saliva drying on them and Gothmog’s taste upon his tongue mixing with the lingering tang of coffee. 

Staring at Maeglin for a moment, Gothmog wants to say something suave, something that will make Maeglin stay in his life just a little longer, but what comes out is, “I have to get this, hold on.” Wincing at himself, Gothmog fishes the phone out of his pocket. “Thuri?” he asks, barely able to get the word out before he is deafened by an eldritch wail. 

The name Gothmog speaks makes Maeglin’s stomach drop and the lacy bit of vanity weigh a ton more in his pocket.

“Hey, hey, sweetling,” Gothmog soothes, “Thuri-baby, tell me what’s wrong?” 

_ Thuri. _

“Thuri, please, calm down, I can’t–” 

_ You were right to be worried, arsehole. Why didn’t you trust your gut? _ Maeglin’s hands feel cold, his breakfast like it’s slowly worming its way up his gullet.  _ You were nothing but a problematic pastime. And you just made a cheater out of him. _

And of himself, Maeglin realises, because he fucking  _ knew _ , but was selfish enough to want Gothmog anyway. He’d used him just as bad.

Turning around, Gothmog scrubs an agitated hand through his loose hair. “Sweetie, shhh, it’ll be alright…”

_ You were just fooling yourself, hoping that this  _ **_Thuri_ ** – even in his own mind, the name is spat venomously –  _ to be a friends-with-benefits kind of thing, but does anyone speak like that to someone they don’t find really important? _

“Look, where are you, luv, I’ll be there as soon as I can?” Gothmog worries, broad shoulders tense.

_ She needs you. I’m keeping you from her. _

At least Gothmog gave him an exit strategy, no matter how shitty it feels not to see his face for one last time. Maybe it's better this way – he doesn’t have to see Gothmog’s expression filled with worry for this dear woman of his, with whom he has so much more history. 

Maeglin can’t win here. 

He can’t even lose gracefully, and that’s almost worse. 

_ I’m sorry. So fucking sorry.  _ Maeglin doesn’t know for whom, really. Himself, maybe, because he’s a horrible coward. The anger, he knows, will come later.

“Sorry Maeglin,” Gothmog sighs, turning around, “my friend needs some support – are you sure I can’t drop you… off…”

Maeglin is gone. 

 

Taking a few steps towards the busy pedestrian street, Gothmog sighs to himself, stopping indecisively. Perhaps it’s better this way; Maeglin seems to value his independence highly.

Running a hand through his hair again, Gothmog scratches his neck. 

_ Why did Thuri have to get dumped this morning of all mornings? _

Returning to his car, he drives off quickly. Thuri is heading back to the penthouse for ice cream and sad romance films if he knows her right, and he doesn’t have time to get by the site like he’d planned, which only compounds his sudden bad mood. 

“Miss Thuri is in some distress,” Jacques tells him, his voice coming crisply through the car’s speakers as Gothmog drives through Sunday morning traffic. 

“Yeah, I’ll be home soon.” Gothmog says, telling himself not to look at all dark-haired pedestrians in the hope of spotting Maeglin in a crowd, “Get her settled with a cuppa, please,” he adds, making an effort not to snap, “and call someone to pick up a load of groceries, would you?” Sighing, he stops for the red light, drumming impatient fingers on the steering wheel. “This is going to be an all day affair.” It’s not that he  _ minds _ – Thuri is the one who picks him up and puts him back together when  _ he _ falls to pieces, after all – but the timing could have been a lot better.

“As you say, Sir,” Jacques responds, ringing off. “I will call Mistress Rosie.”

Shaking his head – Jacques sometimes gives him reason to think he was a British Butler in a previous life – Gothmog continues homeward. Swinging by the ice cream store they favour, he picks up a large tub for each of them, feeling sorry for himself. 


	4. Friends in High and Low Places

Flopping down on his mattress, long fingers fiddling with the charger cord, twisting it around his fingers, Maeglin sighs. His heart is still pretending to do a fucking dubstep, but it’s not like he’ll get any sort of peace here. Closing his eyes for a second, he lets the phone fall, running his hand down the soft cotton of his – _Gothmog’s_ – blue shirt, the weight of the phone shifting with the beat of his heart.

Maeglin mostly wants to burrow under the spotty duvet and sleeping for a hundred years. Corben’s worry seems so far away, but he knows he ought to respond, even if he doesn’t quite know how to explain – even to himself – what he was thinking last night.

Annoyed, he forces himself to react after a minute, thumbing the screen and scowling at his own reflection.

Maeglin doesn’t _want_ visitors, silently hoping he has developed skills of telepathy since last night that will let Corben know that the offer isn’t serious. The desire still thrumming beneath his skin is not making him feel any better. He wants more of Gothmog’s kisses, but he knows that won’t happen – _shouldn’t have happened in the first place, you twit_ – not sure if he is more angry at Gothmog or himself for that entire fucked up situation. Groaning at himself, he picks up the phone again when it buzzes.

_Nosy fucker._

For a moment he wonders if Corben is jealous, but dismisses the notion as foolish – it’s not like they’re an item, after all, and he’s more than certain that Corben fucks other people as regularly as he visits Maeglin.

There’s only so many ways to contract an STI, after all.

He’s still surprised it doesn’t bother him to know that his sometimes-lover visits other beds – why, then, does it matter so much to him when it’s Gothmog, a man he’s known for _days_ compared to the _years_ he’s spent in Corben’s company?

Tired of his own thoughts going in circles, Maeglin types off a short reply, wondering if Corben will read it as annoyance or eagerness.

Not that it matters, really.

Checking the time, Maeglin sighs again. From experience, he knows Corben’s 20 is closer to 40 or 60 – it’s not so critical to be precise when you’ve got nothing to do.

Nothing but customers and Maeglin.

Rolling off the bed, he abandons the phone on the stained duvet, shuffling into the kitchen and kicking dirty laundry and pizza boxes aside on his way. Flipping open the coffee-maker lid, he tosses the mouldy grounds into the nearest garbage bag with a grimace.The line between his living and cooking areas has become terribly convoluted the past couple of weeks.

_I’ll clean tomorrow._

His good intentions are lost to the loud shrill noise of a fire alarm going off and making him drop a spoonful of coffee grounds on the counter. Sighing, he moves to the window, jerking it open with some difficulty, and sticks his head outside.

The incessant beep comes from the downstairs restaurant, and Maeglin watches the bored-looking owner chase people out to the street – at the same time looking like she’s trying to stop them from fleeing.

“You okay there?” he calls down.

“Yes, yes,” the somewhat harried-looking Arminalêth shouts back, gesturing towards the restaurant. “Bloody Anthony tossed a butt in the can again.”

Maeglin quietly wonders how Anthony hasn’t been fired yet – by his count, that’s the fourth time this has happened – yanking himself back inside with a nod. Flecks of indeterminately coloured paint stick to his sweaty palms, and he glares at the windowsill as he walks back to the sink to clean his hands.

_Shithole with its shit window._

Managing an approximately correct amount of grounds, Maeglin flips the switch and climbs on the windowsill, watching cars rush by as he picks at the peeling paint. Where golden and red leaves had danced on Gothmog’s neighbourhood, here the view is marked by plastic bags and spills of oil.The smell of dirty grill lingers, but the outdoors still smells better than the indoors.

Barely.

He wonders if it’s ever felt as ugly and worn and dirty as it does now.

At the same time, he knows he belongs here – but there’s this horrible voice claiming otherwise, whispering sweeter promises in his ear, in his stupid heart.

The sound miraculously cuts off, leaving only the usual traffic noises and the slightly muffled rapid-fire Adûnaic cussing of Arminalêth in her kitchen and the gurgle of his percolator doing its best to create something worthy of the appellation _coffee_.

Rubbing his thumb over the fragmented edge of paint, catching another flake with the edge of his nail, Maeglin waits for he last splutters to die down, doing his best not to compare his view – brick walls, a dumpster, and the opening of the small alleyway – to Gothmog’s.

It doesn’t quite work.

 

* * *

 

“Were you sleeping?” Corben asks, giving Maeglin an odd look when he opens the door, twenty past two.

“No.” Running his free hand through his hair, Maeglin stifles a yawn. The safety chain dangles against the dented wood of the door, the small sound scraping at something sore inside his skull.

“You _were_ sleeping.” Corben grins.

“ _You’re three hours late_ ,” Maeglin seethes, “ _of course I was fucking sleeping._ ”

Corben’s grin doesn’t falter, slipping past Maeglin as though he actually lives here, not even giving a cursory glance at the mess littering the floor. Corben has always been the type to make room for himself, really, and pretty good at that.

Maeglin doesn’t share Corben’s enthusiasm, closing the door firmly.

“Hey, what’s with the attitude, man?” Corben shakes his head like he’s honestly confused.

Maeglin’s head pounds as he leans back against the door, watching impassively as Corben pushes at the stacks of papers and books – textbooks, mostly, sporting a light layer of dust and dotted with various stains – on the small counter. Maeglin almost wishes he’d push something off – it’d give him an excuse to be properly angry – but Corben knows better than to drop his things on the floor.

“I made you coffee,” Maeglin shrugs, closing his eyes and trying not to scream with sudden frustration, “but it’s shit by now.”

“Heat it up,” Corben shrugs, dropping his big black backpack on the cleared counter-space with a loud thud. “Wouldn’t mind some.”

Maeglin stares at it – somehow that single thing stands out of the rest of the clutter like a starless spot in the sky – for a few moments, feeling empty. _Your ulcers_ , he thinks, padding into the kitchen. Washing a glass, he fills it from the tap, taking a long swig and hoping his headache is simply the result of dehydration.

Corben’s looking into his fridge – it’s almost amusing how long he takes, considering how little is in there.

“You should’ve said you were coming over for lunch,” Maeglin says, his voice falling short of teasing. “I’d have made you something.”

“Ha-ha,” Corben laughs, as though Maeglin was joking. Shutting the fridge door and leaning against it, he looks at Maeglin properly for the first time.

Corben has nice eyes, Maeglin’s always thought. Grey and dreamy. Dreamy pot-smoker’s eyes.

“The void you’re wearing?” Corben splutters, gaping at Maeglin’s attire. “Those are like – whatsitcalled – harem pants?” Chuckling at his own hilarity, Corben unearths a clean mug and pours himself a cup of coffee, heating it in the microwave. “Those are like ten sizes too big. Did you borrow them off Hoqob?”

 _“Shit.”_ Maeglin suddenly realises he didn’t remember to take his bag of clothes with him, treating Gothmog’s car like a dump pit. His cheeks heat up – something Corben instantly notices.

“If it’s serious, you’ve gotta tell me who it is, dude.”

The sewer pipe makes a lurching sound, like distant vomit. Maeglin’s stomach lurches in response. “The last time I told you who I fucked,” he mutters, “you sent people to ransack his home.”

“After he hit you in the eye,” Corben replies, waving off Maeglin’s spluttered protest like that’s a normal thing to do.  “You know what the doctor said. Detach your retina again and you might lose it.” A bag of toast rests on the kitchen counter among yellowed receipts and empty paper bags crushed into misshapen balls. Turning around, Corben reopens the fridge door and picks up a bottle of ketchup.

_I really ought to clean._

The near-empty ketchup bottle makes an ugly noise as Corben squeezes a thick spurt over a piece of toast, stuffing the treat into his mouth.

“You should’ve waited until he got home if you wanted revenge for my sake.” They’ve had this conversation before – Maeglin’s head throbs with a hint of migraine. Corben sometimes likes to think of himself as a knight in shining armour, or whatever the fuck.

Corben finishes his toast and takes a drink from Maeglin’s glass. He suddenly stops, close – and sniffs Maeglin’s hair.

“You smell good.”

Maeglin shivers and looks away.

Corben squeezes his shoulder. _He_ smells like marijuana, motor oil and old couch. “Is it serious?” he asks again.

“Why do you care?” Maeglin wonders, the words coming out more tired than cutting.

“Well, this friendship-thing and all that…” Corben says airily.

“Corben –” Maeglin sighs.

“The last time you blushed like that was when Hoqob slapped you in the face with his dick!” Corben exclaims. “Or wait a minute – you _didn’t_ even blush –”

“ _For the love of_ …” Maeglin hisses. “It _isn’t_ serious. In fact, it’s _over_.” He doesn’t want to think about Hoqob _or_ his dick. It’s not as good as Gothmog’s anyways – _dammit!_

Corben makes a sound. His fingers inch towards the collar of Maeglin’s t-shirt, brushing over his naked skin.

Maeglin lets him. His stomach feels oddly tight.

Corben’s fingers are cold and dry, like cardboard. “You’ve got the jitters, no?” he asks softly, finger tracing hypnotically back and forth across Maeglin’s pulsepoint.

Maeglin nods.

“I’ve got something for that.” Corben smiles.

It’s a smile Maeglin likes. It promises him a bit of peace.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Why does she do this to herself?_ Gothmog wonders, stroking the soft dark hair of his best friend, the deep crimson balayage new since the last time he saw Thuri. Part of him wants to go hunt down the bitch who broke her heart but that won’t help, he knows, and the way Thuringwethil is sprawled across his chest, wrapped around him like an octopus tells him she needs comfort more than vengeance.

The end credits roll across the screen.

With a flick of a button, the tv disappears behind clever panelling in the ceiling.

The ice cream tubs are empty, and his phone is blinking with several missed calls that he can’t be bothered answering. One is his mother, probably wanting a report on the bloke he brought to Olive’s, and Gothmog doesn’t know what to tell her about Maeglin.

Maeglin hasn’t called him. Gothmog didn’t really expect him to, but a text would have been nice, something he could look at, convince himself that Maeglin really was… real.

The stains on the sheets that finished washing ages ago only linger in his mind, memories of Maeglin’s body wrapped around him making him wonder what he’s doing now. Hopefully sleeping, looking at the time.

Thuri is out completely, and Gothmog dares to call Jacques. Keeping his voice down, he learns that Jacques called for delivery from the local supermarket and is keeping the things in his own flat.

The kindness makes him smile, thanking Jacques before terminating the call.

_At least we’ll have breakfast._

 

* * *

 

_“You’ve got a spine made of spiders, kitty – spine made of spiders…”_

Maeglin groans and pulls the pillow from under Corben’s head, burying himself under it.

Corben laughs, his fingers stuttering but never stopping as they tickle their way down the bumpy road of Maeglin’s vertebrae.

“ _Are you afraid of your spiders, kitty, is your bed made of fire-ah?”_

Corben’s got an even worse voice when he’s high. It should be illegal. It should be captured in a fucking box and buried under a volcano.

 _“Fuck you,”_ Maeglin whispers, voice raw but muffled by the pillow.

The hand cups his backside, kneading lightly before letting go. Maeglin sighs and turns over, watching the smoke curl as it tries to reach the grey-ish ceiling. Something in him cracks open from the weight of everything – from the liberating vibration in his lungs, in his veins. The world feels slow and somehow glassy, as if Maeglin could see through it if he tried hard enough.

“Void,” he murmurs and turns to look at Corben who’s now on his back too, the dent of his belly slowly inflating and deflating with deep breaths. The man looks back at him after a moment, looking all sorts of soft and malleable and fucking gooey, pupils enlarged as if the room had suddenly gone dark.

“I really liked that guy,” Maeglin says, pronouncing the words very carefully. “A fucking shame.”

“You want to make me lonely, Maeglin, that’s what this is.” Corben nods to himself, seemingly forgetting to stop nodding.

Maeglin huffs. “Of course not, stupid.” Reaching out, he pushes Corben’s head back onto the mattress.

“The months you were clean were the fucking loneliest ever.” Somehow it doesn’t even sound like a lie.

“Well yeah I was clean,” Maeglin tries, “you think that’d have happened with you?” He doesn’t know why he feels this need to defend himself – Corben should _want_ him to get clean… shouldn’t he?

Corben sits up, humming his stupid song under his breath, and lights a joint.

Maeglin watches him smoke it, turn the air above the bed thick.

“You can get a guy, Maeglin,” Corben allows grandly, gesturing with the blunt. “Why’d this one be different?”

“He’s a good one. I think.” Maeglin’s kept changing his mind about that way too many times the past 24 hours. He’s starting to think he’s lying to make himself feel better every time he tells himself that Gothmog’s kindness is a well-crafted lie.

There’s been too many lies in his life. He’s being a paranoid little shit.

Corben offers the joint, his hand hovering above Maeglin’s lips. Maeglin meets it, then drags in the air through it slowly, Corben’s fingers tickling his lips. They’re replaced by a mouth, and Maeglin kisses it, almost without meaning to.

“You know,” Maeglin says when Corben pulls away and sits back up on the bed, crossing his long legs over the duvet.

“I bought you this bed, remember?” Corben pulls off his green shirt, exposing corded muscle and an array of tattoos on his back.

“Yeah, Corben, but listen – I’ve no one else to talk to, I’m shitting myself, please tell me I’m not fucking losing it –”

“You aren’t losing it,” Corben shrugs, giving him one of those dreamy smiles that used to make Maeglin’s heart beat faster, but now just tell him that Corben is riding a high.

“I just want to get out so bad,” Maeglin admits shakily. “But I can’t do clean. I can’t fucking sleep. I can’t _function_.”

“Sshhh,” Corben hushes softly, offering him another hit.

Maeglin takes it. “They’ll get me off shit and give me new shit,” he continues. “The hell am I supposed to do?”

Smoke curls until it stops, the tail whisking in goodbye until it’s gone.

“You’ll do your best,” Corben says. The art depicting a hedgehog seems to creep a bit closer, or grow a bit bigger, or whatever.

Maeglin raises a hand and pokes at it, surprised for the thousandth time it feels like soft skin and isn’t spiky at all. “The bar’s too bloody low,” he whispers, resigned. “And I still can’t.”

“Yeah.” Corben climbs on him, then, something small and white perched between his fingers. Maeglin stares at it. “Open your mouth.”

Maeglin does. He drinks the water offered, and falls back against the mattress, pinned down by thighs too lean to feel right.

“Okay, listen,” Corben says. “If you’re this fucked up after one night, that guy’s no good for you. You did the right thing ending it.” Tilting his head, he grins. “And I’m _clean_ now… I’ll help you forget about him.”

Hands are pulling at Maeglin’s – Gothmog’s – pants, and then there’s a mouth on him, slowly working him until he’s somewhat hard and moving softly against it, sighing into the cloud of dopamine his mind is floating in.

“Wanna fuck?” Corben asks, his breath warm on Maeglin’s ear and his fingers pressing against Maeglin’s hole.

Maeglin shrugs, spreading his legs with a small carefree hum.

Maeglin closes his eyes, and soon Corben's fingers grow in thickness and warmth... and Maeglin knows he's in trouble even if he can't muster up enough brainpower to know why.

 

When Maeglin climaxes twenty minutes later, he’s tingling all over, all the bruises of yesterday blossoming in the colours of a prism, bile pooling beneath his tongue. Cold sweat soaks the sheets beneath him and Maeglin feels like he wouldn’t know if he’s dead or alive if someone asked.

It’s not a good feeling, but it’s a distinct one, as if he’d discovered the shadows behind the stars after all. They’re two-dimensional, showing their bright, pretty faces to the people down here, hiding absolute darkness behind.

No one can prove him wrong.

He’d win a fucking science award if he could somehow reason it.

_Can you see it? You’re a star – you’re a fucking star._

_Can’t you see it?_

Maeglin only realises he’s got tears in his eyes when Corben thumbs his cheeks dry.

“Do you think they ever blink at the same time?” he asks, his voice floating around him like mist.

“The what?” Corben moans, hips blooming warmth into Maeglin when he comes.

“The stars…”

“No, I don’t think they do.”

Maeglin looks away.

“Except…” A sigh, soft like dirt on a casket, and Corben’s hips move one last time. “If you close your eyes. If your eyes are closed, the whole damn universe is dark. If you can’t see them, they aren’t there.”

Maeglin lets his eyes flutter closed. Corben’s wrong. He can still see them. He can see _all of them._

Corben pulls away. “What do you need another man for? I’ll take care of you. You know I will.”

“Yeah.” It’s true. Maeglin knows Corben will take care of him.

All the way into his damn grave.

 

* * *

 

 

“Where are we going today?” Thuringwethil asks, the dark circles beneath her eyes hidden by makeup, popping half a strawberry into her mouth as they watch the light Monday morning drizzle from his kitchen.

“I’m meant to work – and I still haven’t been by the library like I promised… are you coming along?” Gothmog asks, hardly surprised by the nod. Thuri made him pancakes, after all. He gives her a gentle smile. “You can play my secretary, then,” he decrees, no small amount of glee at the predictable groan the words elicit. Lifting his mug of tea in a wry toast to her, he grins wickedly.

“Fiiine,” she sighs, “eat your pancakes, Momo.”

Gothmog’s grin widens and he obediently cuts a bite of pancake, running it through the syrup with a pleased hum.

“So where were you yesterday morning?” Thuri asks, digging into her own plate. “You weren’t home when I called you.”

Gothmog chokes on a bit of pancake, his cheeks flaming.

“Breakfast,” he mumbles, keeping his eyes firmly on his plate, though he knows that the hair falling into his face won’t hide his blushing.

“ _Breakfast?_ ” Thuri repeats teasingly. Then she gasps. “ _You_ had a **_date_ **Gothmog Balrogath! _And you didn’t tell me!_ ”

Gothmog makes the tactical error of looking up at her, which only makes Thuri gape again.

“Ohoh,” she grins cheekily, “more than just _breakfast_ , hmm… You got laid, didn’t you?”

“Never you mind, you nosey wee besom,” he growls.

“Oh – was she that bad?” Thuri wonders, her own heartache seemingly forgotten.

“ _He_.” Gothmog smiles almost without meaning to, remembering the feeling of waking up with Maeglin like he’d done so a hundred times before – no matter how awkward it was to realise that his dream was reality – and feels his groin tighten a little at the memory. Memories of Maeglin’s pale limbs wrapped around him – _those soft red lips parting to admit his cock_ – swim around his brain, threatening to make him stand to attention in hopes of another round.

“ _He_ , hmm?” Thuri prods. “Tell me _everything_.”

Gothmog waves her off, his pancake dripping a small blob of syrup on the table. He wants to keep the memories to himself a little longer, work out how to best explain what he felt with Maeglin.

“Fiiine,” she sighs again, fonder this time, and reaches over to squeeze his hand. “I won’t pry – much.” That silent support is one of the things he loves best about Thuringwethil; she knows him well enough to know when to leave a topic alone, and she doesn’t judge him for it.

“We’ve a meeting at nine-thirty with the insurance lady,” Gothmog says, returning the soft touch with a smile. “And an afternoon meeting with a new investor considering project Erebrhaen. Someone Fëanor knows, bloke by the name of Duilin.”

“I’m at your command, boss!” Thuri teases, giving him a mock-salute and finishing the last of her tea.

Gothmog laughs.

Today is going to be a good day.

 

* * *

 

 

Corben wakes Maeglin up by gently jostling his shoulder. “Maeglin, my man?”

Maeglin fights open an eye and meets the grey gaze. Corben doesn’t look much worse for wear. The window lets in enough light he knows it’s been morning for a while.

“You got any cash?” Corben asks.

“No,” Maeglin murmurs.

“There’s no food in the house.” They’re out of toast and ketchup.

Maeglin sits up, groaning. His body feels like he’s wearing saw-blade armour inside out. “Check my wallet in my jacket pocket,” he mutters, falling back onto the mattress and squeezing his eyes shut as he listens to Corben shuffle through the pile of his clothes.

“ _…Dude_ ,” Corben exclaims breathily. “You said it was a _guy_. What the fuck.”

Maeglin opens his eyes, glaring at Corben.

The lacy underwear dangles from Corben’s fingers, bright and impossibly red.

Memory needles him, causing his dry mouth fill with saliva. Swallowing hard, Maeglin holds out his shaking hand. “Give them to me.”

Corben makes a noise, almost like laughter. He’s holding them up with apparent interest, stretching the mesh and lace between two forefingers. “Are these yours? Will you wear them for me?”

They stare at each other. Corben wiggles the piece of fabric like a flag, taunting Maeglin with it.

“Hand them over or get the fuck out,” Maeglin growls, his voice dripping with vitriol, the kind which takes too much from his near-depleted energy storage but still flows like blood from a wound.

Corben seems to hesitate, his face oddly waxy and serious for a moment – but then he smiles, all bright and friendly once more as he walks over and drops the underwear into Maeglin’s hand.

Maeglin blinks at him. His eyes feel disgustingly crusty and he thinks there’s something dried up in the corners of his mouth. He doesn’t want to know what.

Corben takes his backpack. “I’ll have someone send you food from downstairs. Rice or something.”

“Don’t bother.”

“Fine. But eat something, please, Maeglin. You don’t have much fat to spare to begin with. I already feel stabbed when I fuck you.” He leans down, tilts Maeglin’s chin up for a kiss. “Talk to you soon. Don’t get in trouble.”

As soon as Corben’s gone, Maeglin turns towards the nightstand and flips open the book on it.

There’s a Minigrip, tightly sealed, left exactly where Corben always leaves it.

Maeglin closes the book.

Maeglin opens the book.

 

* * *

 

“So, this date of yours,” Thuri opens, leaving the meeting, “when are you going to see him again? I can tell by the look of you that he was at least a good lay…”

Gothmog splutters. “How did y-wha– _how??_ ” Staring at his best friend, Gothmog knows that the rise of colour in his cheeks definitely give him away – and the memory of yesterday’s wake-up makes his groin feel more than a bit tight.

Thuringwethil laughs, her own heartache forgotten, and hugs him. “Good for you!” Then her smile turns mischievous. “Did you really think you could hide that well-pleasured look from me?” A raised eyebrow is more than enough to convey her accurate assessment of that plan, and Gothmog can only shrug helplessly in response. He hadn’t thought she was watching him closely enough to realise through the flood of tears and break-up movies of last night.

“Well… I want to,” he admits, holding her door open for her. Thuringwethil gives him that familiar fondly amused smirk she always gives him when one of Da’s many chivalrous teachings rear their heads. “I was… hoping he’d have called me by now.”

“Are you sure you’re my friend Gothmog Balrogath?” Thuringwethil asks when he joins her in the car that seems to lose some of the spaciousness when her next words fill it with his own guilty conscience: “Because it sounds to me like you’re busy being a lil’ bitch coward… and that’s so not _you_.” Pulling a tube of dark lipstick from her purse, Thuri reapplies a coat and smacks her lips at herself in the small mirror. “You’ll call him,” she predicts, “or I’ll do it for you – it’s been a long time since I’ve seen you this… _relaxed_.” She’ll do it too, Gothmog knows, just like she asked his crush to the graduation ball at Aulendur High.

“Fine!” Gothmog growls, fishing his phone from his pocket, “manipulative bint.” Opening his contacts he scrolls to M.

No Maeglin.

Trying to search yields no contact for any variant of Maeglin, either – the closest being Mairon, of course.

“I…” Gothmog says, feeling his heart drop, “I don’t have his number… I was – I was going to _ask_ him, but then… then you called me and–” Leaning forward, he drops his head on the steering wheel with a groan. Thuri doesn’t laugh at him, because she’s really a good friend, patting his shoulder consolingly.

“Well, where did you meet? Maybe he hangs there often?” she offers.

Gothmog shakes his head, sighing.

“Met him at the gym – first timer.”

“Was he a trainee, or?” Thuri asks, raising one perfectly shaped eyebrow.

“I _was_ coaching him, uhmm…” Interpreting Thuri’s other raised eyebrow correctly, Gothmog blushes. “He's not that young! Maybe… 28-29?”

“Well… that sucks,” Thuri says, giving him a consoling pat on the thigh, “but maybe he’ll come back…”

Gothmog nods, though he’s less than optimistic. Putting the phone down, he tries to shake off the sudden melancholy of never seeing Maeglin again. “Dinner?” he asks, knowing that she’ll hear the false cheer in his voice, and silently grateful that Thuri just nods.

“I’m in the mood for fish… how about that Falmarin place down by the Alqualonde?”

“As the Lady commands,” Gothmog jokes, easing them out of the parking structure and into the flow of traffic. “The Hall of Pearls it is.” The Pearl, as its known, is upscale, but business casual is alright for the place on a weeknight and he’s suddenly too hungry to turn for home anyway, signalling left to get towards the oceanside promenade instead of turning right along the river.

“Don’t pretend that you don’t love their tuna as much as I do,” Thuri chides, grinning. “Though hopefully we’ll be able to eat in peace.”

Gothmog feels his lips stretch in an answering smile, his belly rumbling in agreement. _It’s a good thing Thuri’s fame is limited to a certain crowd_ , he thinks. It had taken them an extra 30 minutes to reach the parking lot after they were done with lunch because of the fans that had suddenly realised that _Thuringwethil_ was among them. They had been almost late to the afternoon meeting as a result.

“At least they didn’t get physical this time,” he rumbles in agreement, wondering how differently the dry if productive meeting might have gone if the new investor he was courting had known that the woman doubling as Gothmog’s PA was in truth a world-famous singer.

“And there weren’t any ‘journalists’,” Thuri nods. “No offense but I’m somewhat over being pegged for Arien’s replacement.”

“Heh… _pegged_.” Gothmog laughs, feeling years younger when Thuri’s spluttered laughter joins him.

“You are _terrible_ ,” she laughs, gasping out the words, “what would Mama Minette say.”

“I don’t want to think about maman ever uttering the word pegging, _please_ ,” Gothmog begs, signalling for a free spot right ahead.

“She’s a _Vanya_ ,” Thuri reasons, “I’m sure she’d know the concept…”

“Lalalalalala,” Gothmog sing-songs, “I can’t _hear_ you.”

Thuri’s laugh brightens, her fingers tickling his side as he kills the engine. Gothmog groans, catching her hand with a warning squeeze. Thuri never has approved of him being not ticklish.

“Very well,” she acquiesces, “let’s talk about something else.”

“ _Thank you._ ”

Linking their arms, they walk along the promenade, looking at the waves washing up on the sand and listening to the seagulls screeching overhead, walking slowly towards the famous seafood restaurant.

 


	5. Divided we stand, united we fall (in love)

Staring at the blinking cursor on his screen, Gothmog frowns. He managed to unearth an email address Maeglin had jotted down in the contact field of the gym’s form – though he’s not really sure he’s spelling it right in the small address box on the screen – and at the time it had felt like a lifeline, a small glimmer of hope after Maeglin didn’t show up for his time-slot. Now, however, it seems almost like it’s taunting him; that tiny blinking piece of crap technology grinning at him all lost for words. 

 _Dear Maeglin,_  

No, too familiar for a boxing coach, isn’t it? 

 _Dear Maeglin La…_  

Gothmog can’t actually spell his last name – the scribble on the form looks like it spells La-something, but it might as well be Laramie as Lancré – staring at the piece of paper that’s taunting him just as much as the cursor on the screen. 

Sighing, he goes back to the first version.

_Dear Maeglin,_

_You didn’t show up for practise earlier._

Too accusatory. 

 _I missed you at the gym today_. 

Missed his pert arse and cheeky smiles, more than the addition of another trainee, really, but he can’t _say_ that. 

 _I’ve still got your bag of …._  

Is it equipment when it’s a ratty tshirt and a pair of shorts that has clearly seen better days… not to mention the bag of wine-stained fabric Maeglin abandoned in his car…?

Oh well.

_equipment, still, if you’d like to pick it up?_

Shit, doesn’t that just sound like he’s trying to get rid of something?

_I…_

_I owe you an apology – I should not have disregarded you in favour of my phone call, but I hope you won’t let it affect your training._

_No, not the_ training _, why am I this bad at stringing words together all of a sudden? Usually I can talk around anyone, what the **fuck**? _Exasperated with himself, Gothmog rubs his temples. 

 _I’m sorry._  

It seems too little, too little to convey the depth of his regret that Maeglin has breezed out of his life as easily as he blew in, like a leaf on the wind.

_I meant to ask for your number on Sunday_

Would he even have wanted to give it? No, can’t think like that; he has to believe that Maeglin felt that _connection_ , too, that it wasn’t all in his head. Gothmog sighs at himself, taking a sip of tea that has gone cold in the time it has taken him to write four sentences. _It’s like I’m a teenager again. Stupid._

_I’d like to see you again. You…_

_You sucked my heart out through my cock and I want a repeat. No, too lewd..._ Even if the memory of Maeglin’s mouth alone has him half hard already. Gothmog scowls down at his crotch, determined to stay respectful in his email though he knows he could easily write an ode to Maeglin’s mouth – to say nothing of his arse… _And what if Maeglin just wanted an easy out of a no-strings sexcapade that went a bit haywire..._

_I hope you’ll come back, here’s my number if you want to schedule a session._

Rereading the paltry efforts at a letter that at once conveys his desire to see Maeglin again but also maintains a degree of decorum in case he has mistyped the address, Gothmog groans at himself. _Well, it’s not going to get any better, Balrogath. Just gonna have to suck it up and send it._

It still takes him half an hour to hit the send button, and about 30 seconds after that to regret it. 

 

Tuesday evening, Maeglin’s got his schoolwork in front of him when his phone pings for email.

 _Probably school_ , he thinks, picking it up and feeling almost hopeful it’ll be an announcement that class is cancelled tomorrow..

It’s not.

Blowing a curl out of his face, he stares at the battered screen of his phone, almost in disbelief. He considers just deleting the message unread, telling himself that’d be the right thing to do. 

But Gothmog _had_ written "Dear Maeglin"...

Maeglin opens the email.

Maeglin closes the email.

The cold leftover ramen in the bowl beside _An Introduction to Geology_ smells vaguely of the cheap spices he had sprinkled over the broth. A half-devoured sandwich with a slice of turkey sticking out from between the pale pieces of toast rests next to the bowl. Maeglin picks it up, ignoring the tremble in his hand, and dips it in the soup before stuffing his mouth, chewing vigorously.

He opens the email.

_Dear Maeglin_

He doesn’t dare to continue. The text is right there but his eyes are stuck on those two words he keeps reading in Gothmog’s voice, repeating again and again in his head.

Time passes until the phone decides he can’t be looking at it anymore and turns the screen black. He rubs the cracked surface with his thumb, right where he’d read that greeting.

Maybe it won’t be there?

Maybe that stupid hopeful part of his brain is finally disillusioned enough to come up with hallucinations.

Somehow, the rest of the grey matter agrees that this message will most probably either solve everything or make his life complicated.

He puts the phone away and picks up the highlighter he’d dropped on the page.

The nearshore is affected by the waves, i.e., that part of the shore where water depth is a half wavelength or less. The width of this zone thus depends on the maximum wavelength of the approaching wave train and with the slope of the seafloor. The nearshore area, when…

Maeglin has already painted the entire section yellow when he realises that he has no idea what he just read.

He glances at the phone, black eyes zeroing on it as if he could set it on fire and solve the problem like that. Reaching, his hand falters, finding the sandwich instead, and Maeglin forces himself to swallow another bite of his meagre dinner.

…when looking at rocks deposited in this zone, is typically called the shoreface, and is broken into two segments: upper shoreface, which is…

He closes the book and pulls his knees against his chest, folding himself up.

A big fly with iridescent wings finds the ramen, lands on it, pokes at it with its proboscis.

Suddenly Maeglin almost wants to laugh. Almost.

_Fuck’s sake._

White fingers inch closer to the phone, and finally pick it up for Maeglin to study the screen from between the twin hills of his bony knees.

He reads it, and unlike with the textbook, every single word seems to sear into his memory.

 _I’m sorry_ , it reads.

_For what? Being kind? Treating me like I… mattered?_

Part of him wants to lay the blame for the whole evening at Gothmog’s door and be done with it.

_But that would be a bastard move._

Scowling at himself, Maeglin thumbs the screen back to life once again.

_So what if there’s a hidden agenda? Everyone has that… but I had to go and get my bloody stupid heart involved, didn’t I? Way to fuck up, Maeglin._

But the way Gothmog held him, let him cry himself snotty against his leg and didn’t boot him out on his arse… it _did_ something, and Maeglin can do many things, but lying to himself is far more difficult than lying to Idril when he tells her he’s doing ‘fine’. He wants to believe Gothmog’s promise, wants to believe that it will really be okay… he _wants_ to, but he’s not sure he _can_.

And if he _can_ , how would he ever be good enough to give what a man like Gothmog needs, let alone what he _deserves?_

Remembering that night makes him think of the way Gothmog looked, those fingers scrambling his mind so sweetly, Gothmog’s taste lingering in his mouth. There’d been something almost _otherworldly_ in the way the light caught the man’s hair, how he had made love to Maeglin with his eyes even after Maeglin had peaked. 

 _That was when I should have asked questions,_ he chides himself. But he hadn’t, he’d just drifted off like it was any other fuck and not something so beyond his usual calling it a mere fuck seems wrong.

It leaves a bad taste in his mouth to consider how utterly rude he was – and _still_ , the man wants to see him again. Glancing down, his eyes catch on another word, wincing as he reads.

 _Potential_ _._

_You have potential._

_Yeah, potential for a sweet fucking catastrophe,_ Maeglin thinks bitterly, biting the edge of his thumbnail while he scrolls back up and then down again where Gothmog’s phone number is.

_You’ve got the ball, boy. You can just drop it. You might be relieved, or you might hate yourself for years. But what is a little more self-loathing, anyway?_

Maeglin gets up and wanders to his window, watching the string of cars with blinking red tail lights. He’s spent countless sleepless nights staring at them, counting seconds between each car, minutes between tooting horns, sometimes thinking about the day he’ll finally get out of here.

_You don’t know shit, Maeglin László, but you know how you felt with him._

_Do I?_

There’d been too much to make that call. But a lot of those glimpses had been powerful and new, their effect lingering on the fading bruises, in the back of his mind – wreaking havoc in his daydreams, assaulting him with brutal beauty inside these battered walls.

He smiles, his thumb caressing the screen, but then his expression withers and turns into a slight frown as he remembers Thuri. The unknown woman is like an invisible boogie, pinging his radar way too often to keep Maeglin comfortable.

There was the guest room. Sexy lingerie on the floor. Emergency calls. The cold fear which had grabbed Maeglin by the balls when he’d thought Gothmog’s cheating on some sweet lady with a random guy from the gym. There’s still the matter of why he’d felt so strongly about that – usually he just wouldn’t care. Maybe it was an excuse for him to fuck off and just... not do this?

The **_guest_** room…

Why would she sleep in a guestroom if she’s his girlfriend?

_Fuck._

Maeglin looks at the message, trying to decide if he should just type an answer instead of calling. Would doing it immediately after receiving the email make him seem too eager?

_Does it matter?_

He types a couple of words, then freezes mid-sentence and erases them. 

It’s like he’s suddenly forgotten how to make words like a human. Nothing feels right – when he reads them aloud to the empty room, they don’t even sound right.

_What’s wrong with me?_

Maeglin sighs, thumbing the screen to stop it from going black.

_Hello, sorry for freaking out on you like ten times. And sorry about my poor impulse control. And inability to function like a human being, not that it’s ever been that easy for me, but you’ve known me for such a short time it may still not be fully obvious, and I’m totally cool with wasting your time again just to feel like I matter to someone for five minutes…_

He doesn’t type _that_ , but it’s harder to quit the sad monologue streaming through his agitated brain.

Nothing good will come of it. Maeglin has no clue what to do.

Sleeping on it might make the most sense.

If there’s sleep to be had for him, anyway, yet another siren passing close by – a stark reminder of the difference between his world and Gothmog’s.

Maeglin realises he misses the woods where he grew up – not the small copses of trees surrounding Turgon’s property, the _true_ woods. The woods were never truly silent – the only thing they have in common with this place – but he never had trouble sleeping there. He can barely remember how it felt to breathe without tasting the exhaust fumes and piss and misery on his tongue, but he yearns for it nonetheless.

Returning to his books, wasting another two hours trying to suck information from the thin, dry lines of text, Maeglin only stops to rub his eyes and smoke a cigarette when he hits the one-hour mark. Night deepens, the clouds over the city never quite losing the dusty rose hue they gain from the countless lights peppered across the cityscape.

He may belong in the city now, but the peace of anonymity he’s found here is not without its own woes. It’s his penance, for a life lived and wasted – turning his back on both sides of his heritage as best he can – a sentence he serves without knowing when he might walk free. 

It’s almost midnight when Maeglin finally gives up, pushing his schoolwork off the bed to crawl under the duvet, hoping melatonin will help him sleep so he has some hope of getting up in the morning without wanting to murder the entire world. Still, his thoughts are running circles long into the early hours before he finally passes into a dreamy half-state where reality mixes with images of smiling, well-kissed lips and the feeling of big warm hands running down his sides.

* * *

 

There’s no response when Gothmog wakes up shortly after six in the morning, and no reply when he returns home from his early morning run either. Thumbing through his phone as he sips his morning cuppa, Gothmog winces once more at the bumbling phrasings he sent into the ether, vowing to never show Thuri this regression to his fifteen year old self.

She can’t ask his crush to the dance for him _this_ time, after all.

Patches meows gently, padding from one thigh to the other and bats the phone away from his fingers, clearly in the mood for petting. 

Gothmog chuckles. 

“I’m moping, eh, Missy?” he rumbles, giving in to the feline demands and running his fingers down her back, scratching the way she likes until Patches is a purring ball of fur and his mug is empty. 

Getting up from the floor by the large windows where he’d watched the city light up properly, Gothmog glances at his phone. Almost eight. Still no response from Maeglin. Patches meows again, staring at him with an expression that Gothmog swears she’s copied from Maman.

“Don’t lose hope, you mean?” he asks the kitten, scritching her ear. “Aye, perhaps you’re right, Patchie my girl… Time for work, at any rate.” 

Heading into the shower, he’s amused by the way she watches him, attentively sitting by the bathroom door and washing her own paw until he steps out, splashing on a hint of cologne. “Smells good?” he chuckles, bending to give her another light scratch on the way to his closet, picking out a simple shirt and tie for the office. 

Grabbing an apple from the bowl on the kitchen island, Gothmog pulls on a blazer, giving Patches a few more pets when he’s tied his shoes. 

“I’ll be home late,” he tells her, “behave yourself.” One morning, he hadn’t realised she’d followed him down till he was unlocking his car so now he’s careful about keeping the small cat in the apartment when he leaves. “Jacques will be up to feed you around four...” Managing to get out the door without letting Patches escape to the landing, Gothmog chuckles to himself, locking the door. 

 

* * *

 

The simple, friendly – _too_ friendly, even – words of Gothmog’s email force their way to the forefront of Maeglin’s mind even while he’s staring at his own lecture notes, trying to make sense of what might as well be a line of hieroglyphics. The font slithers through his consciousness, seeping into the spotty paper in front of him, staring at him from between the lines of his own slanted scrawl.

_Dear Maeglin._

There’s a small corner in his heart where the wish to see the ginger again lives – no matter that seeing him again is bound to send Maeglin into another mental tailspin. 

_I meant to ask for your number._

_I’m sorry._

It’s a daydream he’s never wanted, really, but an insistent one at that – _even pleasant_ – and Maeglin can’t seem to make himself wake up to hard reality.

Somehow, he gets himself through the day, too wired up to be zombified by his lack of proper sleep, but also too anxious to make the nervous energy work for him in any meaningful way.

There’s another, more practical thought that doesn’t stop nagging at him, and though his feet want to take him anywhere else Maeglin rides the bus to Gothmog’s gym. Walking the last two hundred metres with his hood pulled over his head and hands stuck in his pockets, he avoids all eye contact. It’s _dangerous_ , and so backwards, and gives Maeglin the most horrid adrenaline boost; not unlike the time he climbed on top of a giant crane and lost his footing fifty metres off the ground, hanging by one shaky arm until he could regain both his balance and his composure. 

This time he can’t see himself laughing off his panic.

Doing stupid shit seems to be in his blood, and yet it’s not like Maeglin enjoys lurking around like a common junkie. A part of his brain wonders why he couldn’t wait till dark, safe from discovery. 

For his own fragile peace of mind, Maeglin takes a peek at the mostly vacant employee parking lot. He’s relieved when he sees no sign of the red bike or the black car, though he still feels guilty when he circles back around and makes a break for it, just short of running – though the way he’s out of breath might suggest otherwise.

 _Great_. Now he feels like he’s about to steal his own bicycle.

With shaky fingers, Maeglin unlocks the chain he had used to attach his rusty old bike to the lamp post, wrapping it around the crossbar. 

He pedals away fast and hard, steering through the afternoon traffic with his heart in his throat. He’s almost angry by the time he gets home, and yet he’s no wiser than last night. 

 

* * *

 

“‘Ey,” Glorfindel nods, dumping his gym bag next to Gothmog’s chair just before four. “Moping around with paperwork?”

“That trainee from the other day,” Gothmog admits, scowling at the piece of paper before him. Maeglin’s cheeky grin flashing over his shoulder, his arse swaying with hypnotic power appears before his eyes for a moment, so real he could almost reach out and touch, pull the wee minx in for the kiss he so obviously wants.

“Trainee?” Glorfindel replies distractedly, fiddling with his phone. “Oh! Whatshisname, black hair, not that tall – nice tush, right?”

“I was _trying_ to find his number,” Gothmog growls, ignoring Glorfindel’s accurate assessment of Maeglin’s _ass_ et through sheer force of will, “but the only thing on his sign-up form is an email I can’t make sense of, and his last name clearly starts with an L but... “ Huffing out a frustrated breath, he gestures to the illegible writing on the sheet of paper. 

“You mean you _didn’t_ get his number?” Glorfindel boggles, snatching up the paper though he has as little luck with the name or email address as Gothmog. “You sure he’s not a doctor?”

“I’ve sent him an email,” Gothmog sighs despondently, “or tried to, at any rate – but…” The lack of response suggests that his attempt to suss out the email address was in vain. Maybe the thing _was_ meant to read m-i-l-a not m-l-l-a?

“I mean,” Glorfindel continues, dropping the sign-up sheet back on the desk with a shrug, “I was pretty sure there’d be some locker room _petting_ ,” waggling his eyebrows as though _anyone_ could have missed his implication, “going on for you two the way he was eating you up, mate.”

Gothmog flushes, knowing the grin on his face gives him away; even Maeglin’s subsequent disappearing act has failed to wipe it from his face whenever the thought of their tryst pops into his head… which is more often than Gothmog is willing to admit. “You’re going the right way for a kicking, boy,” he threatens playfully, neither surprised nor offended when Glorfindel just tugs at a lock of his hair, tutting meaningfully before he buggers off to get changed.

With a sigh, Gothmog gets to his feet. His Wednesday afternoon fitness class is about to start.

 

* * *

 

Sweat beading his brow, Maeglin sits down with his phone only to stand up again three seconds later, imitating a merry-go-round on the squeaking floorboards. 

_I hope you’ll come back…_

_I’d like to see you again._

_Fuck._ Maeglin knows he can do better, and his half-aborted flailing for the right words to respond to Gothmog’s email last night isn’t it; he should just man up and call the guy, see what happens. 

There’s no saying it’ll be happy ever after and roses, after all. In fact, Maeglin thinks ruefully, there are really only two outcomes to consider:

His infatuation might pass before the lies he’s going to craft become too large for him to maintain. Then he’d fade out of Gothmog’s world, richer with the experience. 

The far more more plausible option is that Gothmog will tire of him before that happens, however, and then ending it wouldn’t even be Maeglin’s responsibility.

The cold, hard prediction hurts a lot more than he expected, but when it’s made, Maeglin already feels a bit better about everything. It’s possible he’s misunderstanding everything and making a fool of himself, but that’s a risk he must take… just in case.

_Give it two hours, and if you still feel like this, call him._

Maeglin doesn’t know if the hint of courage he’s found is going to last him that long, but he sighs, figuring there’s a good way to pass the time. That involves a shower and a good clean and a lot of lubrication to go with his ‘special friend’. 

Wrapped in a towel, Maeglin pulls the box from under his bed. His prick gives a customary twitch at the sight of his slowly accumulated collection – most of them gifts – and Maeglin picks the thickest one, feeling the reassuring weight of it in his hand.

The Original Cock™.

Except that the rubbery thing is hardly _original_ anymore. It’s not far off, in all honesty. The girth is there, and so is the length. The texture is wrong, and so is the colour, and there’s something left to be desired in the way it bends and bounces as he gives it a swing, but there’s enough likeness for Maeglin to feel himself harden. Maeglin drops the towel, feeling the chill of his apartment on his pink-scrubbed skin, but the feeling passes as he focuses on lubricating himself, long fingers digging between the globes of his arse with lewd sounds.

He thinks back on the way Gothmog had watched him doing this in the gym showers, his back arched and damp hair splattered against his skin, Gothmog’s warm shape solid between his legs.

_Gods…_

He plunges his fingers deeper, pressing them into the soft interior, a half-strangled whine whittling from his lips.

_Yes, yes, please open me up for you, stretch me up for your big fat cock…_

There’s no going around the fact that Maeglin’s fingers are too thin for the fantasy, but he makes do; imagines his knees pressed into Gothmog’s mattress, the heavy shaft brushing against Maeglin’s in a sexy, gentle kiss. He imagines a big hand parting his bottom, curiously poking at the rim fluttering around three thick digits.

What would he say?

Ah, yes, _Princess_ …

Maeglin flushes, biting his lip to keep the wretched groan in.

“Take me, Lavalocks,” he murmurs, pulling at his hole until he feels the chill of air inside, a trickle of lube running down his fingers. Licking his lips, he pulls his hand out, grabbing the hefty dildo and spitting on the suction cup before mounting it on the floor. It gives a couple of nods as Maeglin releases it, made slippery to the point of creating a dangerous puddle right beside his bed. Maeglin hardly cares, throwing back his hair as he shifts closer, letting the void-black shape slip along his crack.

He makes a show out of it to his invisible audience, swiping his tongue along his lips while imagining a kiss with a slightly desperate edge to it – a nibble of teeth, a tickle of beard, a possessive slide of hot, slick tongue. Aided by memory, Maeglin grasps the prick now pulsing and hard, glans so smooth and beautiful Maeglin could lick it like a lolly for hours, trace figure eights around the curious little piercing and suck every salty drop straight from the source…

Pressing the rubbery head against his eager hole, moving it with a little difficulty until it pops right in, the sting and discomfort turning into the throbbing pleasure of fullness. In his mind, Gothmog’s eyes are hazy with lust, not a little impressed that Maeglin takes him so easily. He imagines the soft glow of those bedroom eyes, handsome face framed with a cloud of flaming hair strewn in tendrils over the pillow – the soft sigh, the telling stutter of breath, the twitch inside that Maeglin can feel all the way from his toes to his ears.

Maeglin has to grab his cock hard as fantasy threatens to spill him over, and focuses fiercely on lowering himself down, inch by inch until his backside meets the facsimile testicles and his thighs quiver with the strain.

Letting go of his cock to hold onto his abdomen, rubbing the heel of his hand over the twitching muscles, Maeglin moves, feeling how the Cock reshapes him, presses against his prostate when he leans just _right_. Void, he might be a good-for-nothing scrounger, but this is something he knows he does _damn_ well.

Taking cock like a _fucking_ champ.

“Yessss,” he moans, “just like that, yes…”

If only he had those hot, sculpted hips to greet him, the soft well-groomed hair made to nuzzle his face on, Gothmog’s thick thighs to cushion his straining bottom…

“I owe you a ride, don’t I?” He asks breathlessly, imagining the look in those blue eyes, warm palms gripping his hips tightly.

In the quiet broken only by the constant hum of traffic from the streets below and the wet slurps of Maeglin’s hole, Maeglin imagines an answer, one of many he’s saved in the bank of his memory.

 _You’re so beautiful…_  

He withdraws them now, piece by piece, growl by growl and endearment by endearment, shuddering with twisted delight in the very private place he’s created, barring any hints of cruel reality from entry.

_…and you’re mine._

_All mine._

Maeglin moves, lets the little sparks grow inside him as he fondles a nipple, pinching it and pulling at it until it turns raw and red. 

_Come._

_Show me._

He feels tight and hot, mouth dry from the way it’s been hanging open for too long now, brows raised and then wrinkled.

_Maeglin…_

He grabs his cock the last second, crying out at the culmination of fantasy, everything blending into one for a few painful seconds until he hunches over, hand wet with pearly liquid. Breathing hard, he struggles for his composure while his arse is still clenching the monster cock inside, skin drawn tight around the thick black girth.

The floor suddenly feels even harder and colder than it had moments ago. He wipes his hand on the towel, feeling totally beside himself as he carefully draws the toy out, and not altogether in a good way.

It had been the thought of Gothmog’s cock that had prompted this. The terrifying part is how easily Maeglin went along with the fantasy – but as he studies the lush gape with shaky fingers he can’t help thinking of Gothmog’s fingers doing this for him; imagines him whispering silly little things in his ear while stirring the cum leaking out of Maeglin’s well-fucked, sensitive hole.

 _You’re so worried about making a mistake_ , he thinks, pushing himself up, a touch of self-disappointment corrupting his earlier bliss. _But you already made_ this _mistake... a long time ago._

Maeglin gives himself a quick wash and jumps onto his bed, draping the duvet around his naked shoulders, and wills his breathing to settle before he copies the phone number from the email, feeding it into the display.

_Breathe._

Pressing the small phone symbol, Maeglin feels a little dizzy, gulping in a quick lungful.

_Breathe, stupid._

His head feels more than a little light by the time he lifts the phone to his ear, the dull ringback tone a countdown to Maeglin’s impending doom, increasing his anxiety levels exponentially every time it knocks at his ear drum.

He’s about to press the red when the phone’s suddenly picked up.

 

* * *

 

Glorfindel – cheeky grin included – has made himself scarce over by the sandbag, so Gothmog can focus on guiding the gaggle of five o’clock students through their warm-up exercises and attempt to keep Maeglin from entering his thoughts.

The phone ringing breaks his focus, but he doesn’t step away from spotting young Amras, one of Fëanor’s youngest sons. Instead, he gives a sharp whistle that makes Glorfindel’s head turn – an old army signal they still use on occasion – and nods towards the unmanned reception area. Getting a thumbs up in return, he turns back to Amras straining to lift the weighted bar, chuckling to himself at the mingled heckling and cheering on of his twin brother, ready to lend his aid if the weight becomes too heavy.

“Weird.” 

“What was?” Gothmog asks, turning to look at Glorfindel with a raised eyebrow. He appreciates his friend answering the phone, but generally Glowstick gives more info than ‘weird’ when he’s needed to do so.

“The phone,” Glorfindel elaborates, frowning. “I picked it up, greeted them with the gym name and that ‘Glorfindel speaking, how may I help you?’ crap you told me to reel off… and the person hung up without saying anything. Not even a wrong number excuse.”

Gothmog’s spine chills for a moment, but no one knows that young Lilac is hiding in the flat above the gym, on the run from her abusive husband. At least he doesn’t think so. 

“Well… if they call again, we’ll alert Idril,” Gothmog decides, nodding to himself. “Just in case… perhaps Tuor can pull a few strings and see who it was, if necessary.”

“Ah… I won’t ask, don’t need to know,” Glorfindel nods. “Want me to stay, just in case?”

“Nah, it should be fine.” Gothmog smiles; he appreciates that about Glorfindel, knowing the value of secrecy. “You should go home and unpack a few boxes, Lysild… knowing you, nothing but your bed’ll be unpacked when your better half returns from his overseas gig.”

“Hey!” Glorfindel exclaims. “I resent that. I am clearly the better half.”

Gothmog raises a telling eyebrow and keeps silent until Glorfindel bursts into laughter. 

“Alright, you win that one,” he chuckles. “But I want a chance to regain my honour, sir!” Glorfindel mock-challenges, raising his fists into the classic boxing position. “Engarde!” 

Gothmog laughs. “As you wish,” he concedes, helping Amras get the bar back into its brackets and offering his trainees a small apology for letting Glorfindel cut in. “Though I shan’t make it easy for you.”

“I’d be offended if you did,” Glorfindel replies, walking towards the ring with easy grace. 

“Alright, everyone,” Gothmog calls, waiting until the young men have turn to him, “we’re going to have a small demonstration today, courtesy of Mr Lysild and his big mouth. Enjoy.” 

Ducking into the ring, he grins at Glorfindel, strapping on a pair of gloves. 

“Let’s give em a show, eh, mate,” Glorfindel laughs back, and Gothmog nods happily, for the first time tonight distracted from all thoughts of Maeglin, feeling his mind settle and his body prepare for the coming exercise. 

 

* * *

 

Five minutes later, Maeglin can still hear Glorfindel Lysild’s voice ringing in his ear.

Unexpected, yet somehow unsurprising. The whole universe doesn’t need to team up against Maeglin, it can just throw a fucking Glorfindel in his way, making him feel like the man exists just to remind Maeglin of all of his social ineptitude and confidence issues.

Besides, Gothmog gave Maeglin his _work_ number.

**_His work number._ **

_Why? Did he really just mean it so that Maeglin can call ahead of time before coming over?_

He winces at himself, staring down at his finger with chagrin, realising he just tore half of his cuticle off. The bugger stings, and Maeglin sticks the edge of his finger back into his mouth, pressing his tongue against the sore spot. His fingernails have carried the brunt of his stress load worse than usual this last week.

He sits back against his pillow in silence only broken by the traffic below and the rattling sound of the plumbing when his neighbour flushes his toilet.

The worst thing is that Maeglin still really wants to go. He doesn’t know if it’s more of his curiosity or will to fight, or just some irrational, self-destructive wish to see where it all might go. He’s entirely aware he might be presuming way too much.

He’s aware he might be overthinking it beyond his comprehensive capabilities, too.

Maybe it’s both. A fucking double penetration of death-wish and objectivity.

Maeglin half-regrets he never took more than mandatory classes in philosophy. He could have been the next Jean-Paul _fucking_ Sartre.

_What am I going to do?_

There’s no answer. Maeglin simply needs to do _something_ , and that urge finally decides it for him, pushing him out of the door and into the crispy autumn weather.

* * *

 

The match is beautiful; neither of them pulling punches though neither will be truly hurt beyond bruising by the time it is over. Gothmog’s blood surges with adrenaline he wishes he could release into the joining with a willing body. Instead he lets his frustrations bleed off in the meeting of fist and flesh, the gloves a layer of cushioning for both, taking and giving more than a few good jabs. 

The awed look on the trainees’ faces – more than a few mingled with apprehension – when they duck out of the ring, brothers once more, is very satisfying. Gothmog claps one young man on the shoulder, releasing him from the spar they had agreed to; he’s not out to intimidate his students, and he knows what the savagery of such an evenly matched fight looks like from the outside.

Instead, he releases the class to their own devices, picking up his water-bottle and draining it in one go, watching Glorfindel copy the move with a grin.

Looking at the class – a few brave souls still lined up for a turn on the canvas – Gothmog feels his spirit settle a little more. Maeglin will either come to him or he won’t, but stressing himself out over the dark-eyed man won’t do anyone any good. 

With a decisive nod, Gothmog makes his way to the nearest student, offering a few pointers, encouraging another, adjusting a stance here and there until he’s touched base with each of the ten young men of his U20 class.

When he finally leaves the gym, it’s nearly eight and his guts are rumbling for sustenance when he waves goodbye to Lady Lilac – the nickname makes a twitch of a smile appear on her face which feels like a victory of some kind – and locks up for the night.

Maeglin still hasn’t responded to his email and Gothmog would be lying if he claimed the thought doesn’t sour his mood as he drives towards home. 

 

* * *

 

The tower is high, pristine windows reflecting sky like mirrors, and Maeglin has to adjust his beanie to look up properly and not have it either fall off his head or cover his sight. Anxiety pinches his stomach at the idea of Gothmog being home.

The hell’s he going to say to him?

_So you offered for me to come pick up my stuff, but here I am at your door, ruining your pretty aesthetics._

Maeglin shakes his head. If he’s thinking like this, he’ll never take the lift.

_Suck it up, crybaby. Now or never._

Maeglin stops five metres from the door.

Seconds stutter by on his inner clock, meshing into the self-gnawing doubt he’s been trying to rein in this entire time. Right now, he only knows that his feet really, _really_ want him to turn back and take the quickest route home.

 _Fuck_. 

His pulse is beating a rapid-fire tattoo in his throat.

Bile rises, and Maeglin realises he’s in real danger of throwing up in front of the main door. 

_Fan-fucking-tastic. Way to make an impression._

He swallows, stares at his feet as if to make sure he’s still standing up.

The door opens, and Maeglin looks up with terror-slowed reaction, right into a pair of kind brown eyes in an elderly face.  _Security… What was this guy’s name?_ …

“May I help you?” Jacques asks, looking at the young man who has been dithering outside the building for long enough that he’s made a cup of coffee, wondering if he ought to offer one to him too. “Are you lost?” 

He’s young, but maybe not so young as he looked from a distance, Jacques thinks, once he gets a good look at the man, who looks oddly familiar, dark hair peeking out from under a knitted beanie over near-black eyes that skitter away from his own. 

Still, there’s something vulnerable about him, beneath the spiky hackles he can see rise as he speaks. 

Maeglin wonders if he’s forgotten how to speak – air’s not even entering his lungs for a moment, and when it does, it’s not interacting with his vocal cords in any intended or normal way. The beanie’s slipping down over one eye, and he brushes at it, blinking to get his vision straight.

The man’s looking at him, still. Maeglin really should say something.

“I’m… not lost.”

_Great._

There’s this thing about this portier, an aura of something which tickles a memory Maeglin can’t place. 

The lights behind the man flicker, though Maeglin is certain that’s just his eyes fucking up. 

“I – I’m looking for Gothmog –”

The surname’s just not coming up. And when it does, Maeglin’s sure he’s butchering it.

“Gothmog Balrogath. He invited me – _kind of_ – and I was wondering if he’d see me –”

 _You know, you’re probably embarrassing Gothmog as much as you’re fucking yourself over right now._ Maeglin looks too casual to be a prostitute on call, but it probably doesn’t make it any better… 

He looks down from the lined face, gaze dropping to his shoes, and there’s something off about the way he’s standing. One pantleg seems to cling to something different, rounder, thinner, not entirely like flesh. Maeglin realises what it is by the time it’s already taken too long to be an accident, and he’s flushing when he looks up, hoping that his stare went somehow unnoticed.

Jacques smiles – he’s used to the stares, though they happen less these days than when his leg simply _wasn’t there_. Stretching it out, he wiggles the prosthetic limb a bit. “War wound,” he jokes, “never wrestle alligators, lad.” With a wink, he set the fake foot down again. “And Master Balrogath is not home yet, I’m afraid… would you like to wait for him? Leave a note?” He wonders for a moment what this young man wants with his boss/friend – unlike most of the men Gothmog counts as his friends, this one isn’t wearing so much as a dress shirt and his jeans have seen better decades, if Jacques is any judge. 

Of course, he’s too well-raised to pry, holding the door open in invitation and wondering if he should add a ‘please wipe your feet’ to it, looking at the scruffy trainers on the man’s feet.

There was something about alligators, Maeglin’s sure, though his comprehension is seriously lacking behind, but the information around Gothmog’s name tells him all he needed to know.

“No,” he says, quicker than anything he’s managed so far. “No, thank you,” he adds, trying to sound at least a bit apologetic. He’s not sure if it’s relief flooding him now, or disappointment. 

 _Maybe better this way_.

He takes a step back, then turns, brisk though he’s certain he’s staggering, his heart struggling to pump all that blood through his system, running away with it like a maniac.

The young man doesn’t take the joke well, Jacques realises, feeling at once sad that he’s so uncomfortable with the evidence of his past and happy that this man is too young to have seen his age-mates blown limb from limb, too young to have felt the soul-deep scarring of warfare. Staring after him walking off quickly, he shakes his head sadly, considering calling after him – surely Gothmog will want to know who came asking for him, if nothing else – but the man has already disappeared into the gloaming.

Jacques returns to his coffee, now drinkable, and picks up his phone, giving up on making his memory spit of the name that goes with the feeling of familiarity the guy’s looks gave him – _a military connection, maybe?_ – even if the mannerisms were so much less confident or braggadocious than the men of that age he remembers from the army.

 

* * *

 

Gothmog is looking at the frozen pizzas in the supermarket, knowing he’ll regret picking one up later, but tempted to indulge his lazy side and skip cooking properly. Sighing, he picks up a box, less than enthused about the contents, only to drop it back into the freezer when his phone vibrates in his pocket. 

“Yes?” he answers, mentally scolding himself for snapping at Jacques when his crisp voice comes through the speakers.

“A young man came looking for you, sir,” the doorman says, “looking a little worn, if you catch my meaning…”

“Maeglin?” Gothmog asks, for a moment feeling his heart thunder with a wild burst of hope. 

“He did not leave a name or number, sir, I’m sorry,” Jacques replies, apologetic, “he did not wish to stay in the foyer waiting.” 

Gothmog curses colourfully. 

“Thanks for telling me, Jacques,” he sighs, scrubbing a hand wearily through his hair as the spark of hope dies in his chest. 

He doesn’t pick up the pizza, heading for the deli counter instead. A good club sandwich will do for dinner. 

 

* * *

 

It’s still a nice autumn evening, but there’s no joy in it now. Maeglin pulls the beanie a little deeper over his hair, making it to the next street before something in his consciousness starts arguing against his current course of action.

He just let a one-legged old guy scare the shit out of him.

Maeglin stops, subjecting himself to the stares of people so much more put-together than him, visibly of a different social class, and instinctively digs his phone from his pocket, browsing it aimlessly while trying to think things through.

Somehow, he ends up finding himself staring at the familiar words.

_I’d like to see you again._

_“Damn you,”_ Maeglin whispers, biting his lip until it hurts, bearing a jagged outline of his tooth.

Sighing, he turns back, finding himself standing by the driveway ten minutes later, staring at the old guy reading a magazine in the foyer. 

_Let’s not try that again._

A little off to the side of him is a bench unmarked by any night-guest or defiler, the kind you don’t have to inspect too closely to sit on. Maeglin claims it, hoping he’s not mistaken for a scrounger.

_That’d just crown everything._

Resigned to his fate, Maeglin pulls up the collar of his jacket, slinking back and hoping he’s not going to sit here for too long.

Or forever might just do, as well.

* * *

 

Tossing the bag of groceries into the boot, Gothmog’s bad mood doesn’t lift as he drives, cursing his timing. If he had been home, Maeglin might not have run off. He refuses to entertain the thoughts of what might have happened, surprised by how much he simply wants to _see_ Maeglin, reassure himself that the younger man is well. The sight of the staggered tower discs of home in the distance almost surprises him, lost in thought and piloting through the quieting streets almost on automatic. 

Hitting the turn signal right to get down into the parking structure, he’s almost there when he stomps on the breaks, staring at the person huddled against the nip in the air on the small bench he installed so Jacques could have a place to sit and enjoy the sunlight on good days.

_Maeglin??_

* * *

It’s been a while since Maeglin stopped feeling the tip of his nose – the evening’s got surprisingly chilly, and Maeglin’s lost the track of time. It could have been five minutes or an hour, but the lack of sensation on his face and his calves suggests it’s been a while. Once or twice he’s been close to taking off, and effectively spent the time in between going through all sorts of catastrophic possibilities. Useless, really – he shrugs and blows into his fingers, pulling his sleeves as much down as they go.

Then he hears tyres catching on the pavement and looks up from his lap just in time to catch the wide-eyed look of Gothmog Balrogath.

Suddenly, Maeglin’s not cold anymore. He swallows hard, praying to whoever might listen that the cat’s returned the tongue it stole a while ago. He doesn’t want to look like an idiot, not now.

And still his heart is doing little skips as he walks over, cheeks _hopefully_ wind-bitten enough to hide some of his blush. Then his steps have taken him over to the car – _hybrid, right, that’s why I didn’t hear it_ – and though the glass is reflecting sky and light and Maeglin’s miserable weatherbeaten image, he can clearly see the look in Gothmog’s eyes. It’s unfathomable, but just to have those eyes on him makes something inside Maeglin stir.

 _Good Gods, how’s it possible for this man to look this good_ – even better than Maeglin remembers, or has a couple of days been enough to gild the memory? Maeglin smiles, though his cold lips waver a little, feeling shyer than he ought to. Fuck, he wants to bury his hands in that hair _yesterday_.

“I didn't expect to see you again...” Gothmog says as he rolls the window down, drinking in the sight of Maeglin’s red cheeks – he looks cold but stupidly adorable at the same time, and Gothmog strangles an impulse to pick him up in a bear hug before it shows on his face. “Did you… get my email?”

“Yeah,” he answers, slipping a lock of hair behind his ear. What more is there to it? “Ahem. So.. hey. Again.” _Fuck_ – Maeglin hadn't known _business casual_ might be such a turn-on for him. Gothmog looks exactly the kind of put-together that needs to be messed up. Sucking his cheek between his teeth, Maeglin looks away, then back at Gothmog, trying not to appear too wary of him.

_You complete fucknut son of a bastard. Way to be eloquent._

Gothmog sighs lightly, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Are you... did you get uhm... sorted?” He wonders how to ask, _what to ask_ , even, looking at Maeglin who does not seem like someone altogether pleased by where his feet has brought him.

“‘ _Sorted’,_ ” Maeglin repeats, shifting in his place, fingers digging into the lining of his pockets. Had he expected this to be this... _awkward_?  He gets why the man is apprehensive. He has been too. He still has no idea what Gothmog _really_ wants, or if he even wants _anything_. Beyond the obvious attraction, that is – or _was_ , maybe? “Yeah. I did. How have you been?”

“Uhm.. I’ve been... ah, good, yeah... working.” The way Maeglin’s cheeks hollow when he sucks them in should be _illegal_ Gothmog thinks, hoping that the blazer he threw on for his meeting hides the effects it has on him, flashes of memory searing through his mind. “You missed training.” He blurts it out, trying not to think about the wank he had last night, even if fantasy-Maeglin was cheeky and flirty, not awkward and apprehensive.

“I wasn't... sure,” Maeglin mutters, scuffing his toes against the pavement. “We never exchanged numbers.” 

“Yes…” Gothmog flushes slightly. It seems like such an obvious oversight, now, but _then_ … he hadn’t even thought about it. 

No one’s that hesitant – whatever else Gothmog is, _shy_ doesn’t exactly seem fitting – unless they’ve been thinking about the other; Maeglin finds it oddly encouraging even if he knows he’s doing the same thing. “Maybe you just wanted to be gallant with me,” he shrugs, biting his lip. Neither of them had just _stated_ that there’d be a next time. Maeglin had simply opted out of the inevitable awkwardness. “That said, you were very nice.” Maeglin sighs, shakes his head, making the humidity-curled hair bounce against his cheeks regardless of the beanie. “I... couldn't stop thinking about it- _You_.” 

“I was hoping you’d come back,” Gothmog admits, the fingers of his left hand drumming on the steering wheel.

“So, uhm... should I fuck off or will you invite me upstairs?” Maeglin wonders, staring into those ocean blue eyes and trying to convince himself that what he sees there is the same lust that chased him out of his flat earlier.

“Upstairs, eh?” Gothmog rumbles, raising a fiery brow at Maeglin for a second, heart speeding up in his chest. 

Maeglin nods silently.

“You _could_ have waited inside, you know,” Gothmog chides, gesturing towards the foyer where Jacques is reading a magazine – gardening, probably – and managing to appear as though he’s not keeping an eye on them. “I’ll park this; wait for me at the elevator?”

He needs a moment alone to recompose himself – or at least _rearrange_ himself – and consider what exactly he’s doing here.

It’s not the most enthusiastic _yes_ Maeglin’s ever received, but he decides to play his cards anyway. He doesn’t quite smile or give a warning when he surges forward, pressing his lips against the corner of Gothmog’s mouth for a brief, searing second, the tickle of beard doing strange things to his brain. It may have been too soon, but Maeglin refuses to look apologetic when he pulls away, hands still in his pockets. “Okay,” he says, licking his lips quickly, and pulls at his jacket to hide the slight tent in his jeans. “I’ll wait.”

Gothmog flushes, though he can't help the grin that breaks free when he pulls away, turning down into the parking garage almost without noticing and glides to a halt in his familiar space.

 

* * *

 

The elevator has _never_ been so slow moving up a single fucking floor, Gothmog’s foot tapping impatiently against the tiles.

He half-expects Maeglin to have left, even with the kiss still tingling on his lips, but he's standing by the doors when they open with a soft ding. 

“I’m not sure that was a proper kiss hello,” Gothmog growls, reaching for him, grabbing that worn hoodie and pulling him closer. Dipping his head to prove his point, he loses himself for a moment or five, scrabbling at the wall for the button for his floor. 

Maeglin’s lips part, out of surprise and out of instinct, welcoming the kiss with the heat it deserves and effectively ridding himself of the air he had kept in his lungs. 

Crowding Maeglin back against the wall, Gothmog doesn’t care that he’s clearly giving away how much he likes this, his hands once again filled by those plump taut globes of perfection.

Lightheaded, though no less enthusiastic, Maeglin pulls his hands free from his pockets and grabs Gothmog’s arms, solid under the fabric, then kneads upwards to his shoulders and into the tidy, combed hair, the luscious softness greeting his fingers and accepting his tug as he pulls and pushes, tilts his head firmer into the kiss and his hips forward, mewling softly at the contact. _This is more like it._

“Fucking minx!” Gothmog curses fondly, pressing his erection against Maeglin’s groin.  Running his fingers over the taut fabric hiding Maeglin’s crack, he presses in slightly, knowing when he finds the right spot. Maeglin’s hands in his hair spurs him on, pressing Maeglin into the wall, lifting him slightly, and hissing into his mouth as the pleasure spikes. The rough admonishment makes Maeglin chuckle in between kisses, but the low laughter turns into another kind of sound as Gothmog’s fingers dig into his cleft. 

“Look at what you do to me…” Gothmog purrs, grinding slowly, snaking his tongue into Maeglin’s mouth as he rubs a slow circle against that small hole, an unspoken promise. Maeglin shifts in his hold, moaning softly as his hands bury themselves in Gothmog’s hair, pulling him closer.

Maeglin hisses around the slick tongue as Gothmog massages his touch-starved hole, recently stretched around the stiff, lukewarm girth of his toy only.  “Yeah,” he says as he pulls away an inch, eyes darting from the lovely ruddy colour of kissed lips to the bright ocean eyes framed with criminally long, pretty lashes. “But I want to do more…”

Gothmog grins. “Well,” he teases, kissing Maeglin again, pressing his fingers a little deeper, and tasting Maeglin’s groans straight from the source. “You’ll be pleased to learn that I _could_ flip the lock on this box and have you against this wall…” 

“Oh yeah?” Maeglin manages, cheeks flushed, fingers clever. “You like having me against walls, don’t you?” Letting go of Gothmog’s shoulders with one hand to bring his fingers down between them, pressing them against the magnificent, hot length hidden by way too much cloth. He’s never been this thirsty for a re-run.

“Oh, I’d have you gagging for it,” Gothmog promises, moaning against Maeglin’s lips as he grinds himself against Maeglin’s palm in a most satisfying rhythm, his fingers busy playing with Maeglin’s arse and wondering if he can sneak a hand into his jeans. He settles for rhythmic squeezing of one cheek while he keeps up the light caressing with the other, nipping Maeglin’s plump bottom lip. “But the next time I take this greedy wee hole, you’ll be in my _bed_ ,” Gothmog groans.

Everything but Gothmog’s mouth, hands, scent, taste, is just background noise. In this tiny space, Maeglin feels oddly free.

“I want your bed,” he agrees, struggling to get his leg hitched over Gothmog’s hip, bringing himself close, closer, _closest._ “Take me to your fucking bed,” Maeglin moans, the hum of the lift resonating along his spine, squeezing Gothmog's neck with the hand still cradling his thick ginger mane – his other digs into the space between the hefty balls, the heel of his hand hard against the trapped cock. 

“As you wish, Princess,” Gothmog replies, just as the doors ding open. Pulling back slightly, licking his lips, he grins. “Get the keys for me, eh?” Sneaking a hand into Maeglin's back pocket, he squeezes, nipping at that temptingly plumped lower lip. “I want you... _now_.”

Maeglin pouts, a tiny bit unsure whether he still approves of the nickname, but he enjoys the gentle teeth on his lip enough to forgive it for the time being – and Gothmog kissing and fondling him like this is certainly worth it. Locating the keys on Gothmog's person with a little difficulty, Maeglin smiles – the first genuine smile for what feels like days. 

The hand on his backside feels hot enough to burn – and Maeglin wonders how it would feel, smacking into his pale bumcheek while Gothmog's cock punishes his hole, unyielding and glorious. 

He shivers.

“Get on with it, then,” he murmurs hotly, clutching the cool keys in a hand he'd rather use for something else, and mouths at the red hair covering the man's chin, tugging at it with his teeth.

“Oh, my wee feisty one,” Gothmog chuckles, moving his hands to Maeglin’s shoulders and spinning him around to face the door. “I'll be very good to you…” Tugging on the lobe of Maeglin's ear with his lips, he licks along the shell, embracing him from behind. ” _Promise_. _”_

All Maeglin can manage as Gothmog’s gravelly voice travels down his spine is a gasp of air that feels almost cold in his lungs. It’s so _good_ , so _needed_ – the dark grains of the door blink in and out of focus while the teeth of the key dig into the skin of his palm.  

_The things you say…_

“Keys,” Gothmog nudges playfully, sliding one hand down the front of Maeglin’s jeans and thumbing the button open. “ _Lock_.” Pressing himself closer against Maeglin’s back, moving his hips slowly, he moves his fingers in the same rhythm, pulling Maeglin free of his jeans.

Maeglin closes his eyes with a moan, his body melting against the reassuring hard bulk pressed against him from behind. 

 _Needy, hmmm?_ Gothmog thinks. _Or just certain that underwear would simply be in the way… not that I mind. It’s nice to be wanted._  

It's hard to focus on a keyhole so tiny with clever lips on his neck and a warm hand on his cock. Maeglin makes a small frustrated sound as he keeps missing his target, certain that Gothmog is amused by his struggling. “ _Gothmog!_ ” he cries out, voice strained, feeling his wet cockhead drag against the hard denim before it meets the dry, cool air – he feels so exposed, _depraved_ , and just loving it, a mere look down scrambling his thoughts. “ _Fuck_.” 

“I like this thing,” Gothmog murmurs – breathes the words into Maeglin’s ear – before returning to the task of nibbling on his neck. His hips continue to move slowly, reminding him of doing the same thing to the sound of rushing water, the memory of slippery skin beneath his hands making his voice rougher. “It’s pretty,” he adds hoarsely, stroking Maeglin’s cock and listening to the sounds he makes in response.

The lock _finally_ gives, and Maeglin yanks at the key as he pushes the door open, spinning around in Gothmog’s hold once more, determined to claim those lips. Stuffing the keys back into Gothmog's pocket, he shrugs out of his jacket. Then Maeglin takes a step back, grinning, enjoying the blazing look of lust in Gothmog’s blue eyes and manages to push off his faded sneakers through sheer luck, kicking them into the apartment ahead of him. 

Gothmog moves, one hand hooking into Maeglin’s belt loop, tugging him back for more of those burning kisses. Maeglin’s fingers slip under his blazer, and Gothmog wriggles out of the garment without a second thought, flexing his biceps when Maeglin squeezes his arms, tugging the shirt half-way out of his trousers. Putting one hand back on that glorious arse, Gothmog has little warning when Maeglin pulls back, the smirk on his face equal parts trouble and desire.

And then he jumps, locking his legs around Gothmog’s hips, his fingers greedily seeking purchase, burying themselves into fabric and muscle.

Bending his knees slightly to balance the shift in weight, Gothmog laughs, panting into the kiss as he licks his way into Maeglin’s sweet mouth. Moving both hands to cup that lovely arse and giving Maeglin’s left cheek a firm squeeze, he lifts him a little higher as he walks into the flat, kicking the door closed behind them. 

Each step is a glorious spark of pleasure, Maeglin’s hard-on pressing against his body, leaving tiny spots of dampness on his white shirt. Gothmog feels torn between the desire to walk a mile with Maeglin writhing against him like this, and tossing him onto the nearest flat surface for _more_.

The bed wins, though not without considerable competition from the sofa.

“You think it's pretty?” Maeglin asks, nose brushing against Gothmog's before he dives in for another kiss, his beanie sitting crooked on his head.

“You know I do,” Gothmog growls, letting them fall onto the soft mattress, using his arms to avoid crushing Maeglin with his weight. His hands, no longer busy holding on, are wrapped in the softness of Maeglin’s curls, his thumb tracing that kiss-swollen bottom lip gently before leaning in and swiping a taste. 

The bed receives Maeglin like a giant fluffy cloud, giving in under his weight and surrounding him with softness for a split of a second until he’s covered by a very strong and solid man. Their eyes meet and despite the hurry they’re in time seems to stop for a moment in that weird cinematic way that never stops amusing him in movies. The kiss that follows sinks straight through the aroused fog of Maeglin’s consciousness, bringing everything into needle-sharp focus for a second, making everything about lips and tongue and panting breaths.

And then Gothmog bears down on him, and what he’s got trapped below his belt is so hard and thick it almost hurts when it’s shoved against him.

Lust blazes at him from those dark eyes, scorching through Gothmog until he feels like a roaring inferno of desire. Stealing another breathtaking kiss, he rolls his hips down with a groan of pure _want_. 

Everything is too fucking _delicious_ – Maeglin groans and pushes at Gothmog just enough to get his hands between them, managing to unbuckle his belt and tear his shirt free. Pushing the white fabric up the sculpted back, exposing warm skin for his fingers to dig into, Maeglin kneads the gorgeous dimples just over the muscled buttocks. He could go crazy for those.

The trousers that were snug this morning have gone beyond the point of too tight but Gothmog hardly cares, lost in the sweetness of Maeglin’s kisses as he drinks down every single moan torn from his throat like heady wine. Every time he grinds down, Maeglin mewls, pushing back at him, that playful tongue duelling with his own, snaking into his mouth before drawing back, urging him to follow. 

“F-fuck…” Maeglin is a mess, and he doesn’t even care, feeling his windburns tingle with Gothmog’s heat, lust-slippery cock staining his belly where his shirt has ridden up just below his ribs. Shivering with the stimulation, Maeglin closes his lips around the agile, talented tongue, sucking at it eagerly.  

Fucking his tongue into Maeglin’s mouth, fingers tangled in dark hair to keep his head _just so_ , Gothmog groans, wishing for a third hand to remove his restricting trousers. Maeglin’s beanie has fallen from his head, freeing his floppy hair, but that’s just one tiny piece of apparel and they’re still wearing _entirely_ too much. 

But pulling away seems almost impossible, and part of Gothmog wonders if he could ignore his discomfort long enough to frot them both into orgasm. 

Gently scraping his teeth over Gothmog’s tongue, Maeglin lets it slip free, huffing in a shaky breath before rubbing his sensitive, swollen mouth against the neat hair on Gothmog’s upper lip.

_“Let – let me –”_

But neither of them have the patience for words.

Gothmog’s hips are a rolling symphony of desire, and Maeglin is _burning_ for it, his hole twitching and puckering around itself in anticipation. 

Bucking up, Maeglin hooks one leg around Gothmog’s and half pushes, half rolls them over, his jeans falling off his hips to tangle around his thighs instead but Maeglin doesn’t _care_. Panting, blowing a lock of messy hair out of his eyes, he looks down, glossy eyes hooded, heart clenching at the sight of the man he’d thought he had given up with pain and regret.

“You can keep kissing me after, now please – _Gods_ – let’s just lose some fucking clothes…”

His voice dies to nothing but shallow breaths, and the next second he’s pulling off his hoodie, upsetting his already lost cause hair further. Beneath he’s wearing one of his better grey tank tops, the form-fitting good kind Maeglin thinks compliments his shape. Leaving it on, he attacks Gothmog’s shirt instead, making it half-way up the row of buttons before he’s changing direction again like a crazed greyhound, moving down to the fine trousers to get to the most vital part.

Watching Maeglin above him, nearly vibrating with lust, is enough to make Gothmog tremble in answering need. “Tell me what you want,” he urges hoarsely, lifting his hips to push his trousers down and nearly weeping at the feel of his cock being released from its cloth prison. His fingers are clumsy with the small buttons, and he curses himself for wearing such annoyingly complicated clothes, tempted to tear the shirt off his back and to void with the buttons. Moving his hands to Maeglin's hips, sliding around and back to cup his arse cheeks, he squeezes, spreading the globes slightly to let his fingertips play across Maeglin's hole, soft and giving.

 _Too giving, almost_... a vision of Maeglin stretching himself threatens to undo whatever shreds of self-control Gothmog’s got left. _Fuck!_

The big warm hands on Maeglin’s cheeks are so _good_. Instinctively, he pushes back against them, bowing his spine and letting his cock brush against Gothmog’s. The exploring little touches along his crack leave sparks in their wake, and the look Gothmog gives him when he discovers how loose his behind is is pure fucking sex.

“Minx!” he hisses, surging up to nip at Maeglin's mouth, the fingers of his right hand spreading Maeglin's softened hole while his left scrambles for the bottle of lube left on his nightstand. “Came prepared for me, hmmm?” he growls, stealing another kiss.  His lubed-up fingers don’t have to work very hard to find space in Maeglin. “Fuck that's hot.”

“What if I did?” he murmurs against soft ruddy lips, a low pur which hitches with an especially delicious touch along his rim, his eyes closing for a moment before refocusing on Gothmog’s face. “Maybe I hoped you’d just fucking skewer me.” 

The slippery fingers are better than Maeglin would have dared to hope for. They know how to touch him just right, and there’s a small background revelation that Gothmog isn’t doing this just for his own benefit. Too soon he’s finding himself sighing and whining like a bitch.

“Get on your hands and knees, darling,” Gothmog purrs darkly, pulling his fingers from Maeglin’s arse as he flips them, sitting back to watch and wraps his hand around his own cock, slicking it with a few pumps, “show me this greedy little hole.” 

Maeglin finds the breath for a dark, quiet chuckle as he’s pushed over, hair sticking to his damp lips. His arse is still feeling the ghost of Gothmog’s thick digits, and he can feel himself wink open as he struggles to turn over in his rumpled clothes, the unyielding denim constricting him in a way that’s at once annoying and exciting. 

“Like this?” Smiling to himself, Maeglin lowers his shoulders, pushing his backside up and out in a clear offering, knowing exactly how perfectly slutty he is with his rounded buttocks and lubed-up, puffy hole which was ready for this _yesterday_. “If you want to inspect it, don’t take too long,” he adds breathlessly, moving just a little, flexing his hole. Fuck how he wants those eyes on him. 

Tracing one perfect buttock with a finger, Gothmog chuckles, drawing an ever-tightening spiral until his fingertip dips into Maeglin’s soft looseness. “Needy Maeglin,” he whispers, wanting to capture the perfectly framed offering forever. Rising up on his knees instead, he steadies Maeglin with one hand, pushing forwards in one slow but inexorable move until he can feel nothing but Maeglin and the pleasure of being back inside him. 

Managing to balance himself on the mattress, Maeglin brings a hand beneath him, closing his fingers around his cock and drawing back the foreskin to smear the slickness over the ruddy crown. Good thing he had that wank... he might – _might_ – not come during the next twenty seconds.

Maybe. Twisting his fingers into the duvet, Maeglin tries to hang on to his sanity. There’s something illicit to this, doing _this_ without seeing the other. Maeglin’s done it many, many times, and often because that’s _better_ , like he’s being alone with his lust, fucking back at someone who could be _anyone_ if he makes himself forget the face, the voice, the shape and force of movement.

Even with his eyes scrunched shut his senses are awash with Gothmog, aware of the hand holding him, the pleasant manly scent enveloping him, each breath and sigh and groan, the little piercing slipping past his rim, brushing along his insides. Maeglin asked for it, and still he isn’t at all ready for it when it comes, that piece of smooth metal running over his prostate like a drag sail, and this time it’s a genuine, guttery moan that escapes him in a spontaneous curse. 

“Yes, Maeglin,” Gothmog growls, “that’s so _beautiful…_ ” He is possibly the most vocal lover Gothmog’s ever had, constant little sounds and moans escaping him unawares. Maeglin sounds like he couldn’t keep quiet even if asked, and that is a thought that needs to be saved for future exploration. 

“Gothm…!” _Fucker – you’re going to kill me if you keep that up,_ Maeglin thinks, gasping in a breath. _I’ll just expire from this valar-praised exquisite beauty_. “Move,” he whispers.

_But what a way to go._

Leaning over Maeglin’s back, Gothmog nips at his pale neck, twisting the fingers of his right hand through Maeglin’s where they bunch in the fabric of the duvet. 

Maeglin welcomes the steadying embrace, parting his fingers to make room for Gothmog’s thicker ones, opening his eyes to look at their joined hands with the oddest sense of awe. He squeezes the length inside him as much as his strained flesh can, pushing back and crying out when he thinks he’s taken as much as he can – as much as there is, _maybe, hopefully._

Squeezing Maeglin’s slender digits gently, Gothmog gives them both a moment of adjustment. 

One moment.

Drawing back is at once pleasurable and _exquisite_ agony, being squeezed on all sides as he listens to Maeglin’s soft pants, feeling his body react to the thickness of the invasion. 

“P- _perfect_ ,” Maeglin manages to stutter, turning his head aside, knowing he wouldn’t be pissed at all if Gothmog bit him right now. It might push him over the edge, but he wouldn’t really _mind… “You’re fucking perfect.”_

And then Gothmog surges forwards once more, lights exploding behind his eyes as he picks up the pace, need coursing through every part of him. He is not particularly surprised when Maeglin’s balances fails under the nearly brutal assault on his prostate, those sweet moans with each hit like music to his ears. The only reason he’s not completely lost himself is sheer bloody willpower at this point, following Maeglin down to the mattress as he keeps flexing his strong thighs. The new angle is even more glorious, fire running up his spine with each thrust, keeping himself somewhat balanced on his elbow as he nuzzles into Maeglin’s neck.

Maeglin is being taken like he wanted, with this unmatched strength and precision he would envy if he didn’t admire it so much. He’s holding his cock like a venomous snake, hard enough to hurt, and feels a bit of something leak over his white fingers.

_Did I just… come?_

No, he didn’t – or at least Maeglin doesn’t think so. 

Instead, he tilts his head to the side to look over his shoulder as well as he can, just to catch a glimpse of the bearded face, to feel Gothmog’s lips brush against his cheekbone – to have that confirmation he’s never truly wanted _or_ needed before.

_Funny how things change._

Panting, Gothmog feels the edge approaching, more rapidly than expected, and yet not so; Maeglin’s cute sounds and the way he tightens every time Gothmog’s piercings runs over his prostate is like a drug, euphoria spreading through his system. 

Turning his head, he offers Maeglin a kiss that’s more like a shared huffs of breath, praying that the next surge or the next will be enough to bring his lover over the edge.  

Maeglin’s light shame at losing his balance is short-lived, forgotten the moment Gothmog drapes over him like a big hot blanket, those wonderful thrusts driving Maeglin into the mattress. His pulse runs wild beneath that greedy mouth as if jumping up to meet it, and he squeezes Gothmog’s hand instinctively and tangles his other one into the sheets, moaning rough and whining breathlessly – feeling his climax building with each stroke over his good spot, with each open-mouthed kiss and scrape of teeth.

Then Maeglin’s there, and the way Gothmog’s panting hard and heavy against his shoulder, meaty prick twitching inside Maeglin’s arse, reveals he’s not alone in that just before he makes a mess of the soft sheets. His cry is that of bliss and agony both, foreign in his own ears, and that very tiny conscious part of his brain just after is praying he’s not experiencing a heart failure during his gorgeous, near-excruciating little death.

The stutter of those powerful hips laces Maeglin’s pleasure with a sheen of satisfaction. He clings to the hot shaft pummelling him to let Gothmog know how much he’s into this, how much he doesn’t _ever_ want to stop and how much he really fucking _wants_ him to spill over into him – how he’s swimming in this terrifying sweet conflict, stupid-ass _craving_ which has nothing to do with his usual jitters.

Hiding his face in Maeglin’s neck, Gothmog mouths kiss-shaped bruises into the pale skin. _Mine!_ is his last thought, hardly aware enough to avoid biting that tempting column of flesh. Hearing the mewls that are already too loved for a second time, he feels himself let go, stifling a roar of satisfaction against Maeglin’s shoulder, squeezing his fingers and letting the inferno take over. 

 

Gothmog doesn’t want to pull away, though he tries to retake some of the weight his climax dropped on Maeglin’s body when he regains enough mind to do so. 

Maeglin presses his forehead into the sheets and huffs, flushed all over, still holding on to Gothmog’s hand, and wonders if _thank you_ would be the appropriate thing to say right now.

He opts to keep that thought silent, smiling softly instead, dragging their linked hands closer to press his lips against the side of Gothmog’s palm. His black eyes glimmer, exhausted but happy, and for once he thinks something was more than worth the trouble.

_You’re really something, aren’t you._

“I’m glad you came back…” The murmur barely breaks the silence, followed by a string of light kisses across Maeglin’s shoulders, easing them both down from the high.

Rolling his hips gently, Gothmog shivers at the nearly painful pleasure of overstimulation, pulling out of Maeglin with a soft squelch. Smiling, he gathers him close to his chest, rolling them away from the wet stain left beneath Maeglin. 

“Me too…” Maeglin’s eyes sober up a little, though he sighs softly at the kisses and relaxes into them, letting tension seep out of him as soon as he realises it’s crept on him. He’s not about to say how close he was to _not going_.

Reaching down to undo his shoes, Gothmog kicks off his trousers fully, nibbling gently along the shell of Maeglin’s ear and presses himself back against his naked arse. 

They just had rough and fast and really fucking _good_ sex, and now Maeglin’s being held like this, embraced with strong arms, against this strong chest, like everything he is beyond his libido and eagerness suddenly matters, and it slowly starts to dawn at him that this was one stupid-big reason he wanted to come back…

Fuck. Is this some kind of weird psychological crap he should have paid more attention to in high school, or should he just accept the fact that he too might have some basic human needs after all?

Is this something he too can give?

Gothmog certainly seems to think so.

The absence of noise _is_ like noise, and Maeglin focuses on the slowing beat of his heart thudding away in his ears and Gothmog moving against him, hand smoothing down the soft cotton of his shirt. 

“You hungry?” Gothmog wonders, his own stomach making its presence known now that more immediate desires have been sated. Running one hand up Maeglin’s chest, absentmindedly thumbing a nipple, he kisses his neck again, feeling the draw of this languid cuddle stop him from moving towards the kitchen.

Maeglin is soft and warm in his arms, pliant lassitude winning over any desire to move and Gothmog thinks he could be happy staying in this bed, despite the sticky feeling of his cum dripping out of Maeglin to smear between them. The thought causes a small twitch of interest, surprising and then not, imagining what he’d look like if he was capable of moving, if Gothmog spread those soft globes apart, watching the twitching of his hole pushing out what Gothmog put in. A shiver of something darkly satisfied and possessive runs through him, wanting to press himself back inside Maeglin, as though plugging him full of cum would leave an indelible claim on him, heart, body, _and_ mind. 

The touch over his nipple make Maeglin sigh, pushing his leaking bottom against Gothmog’s groin and raising a lazy hand to briefly tangle in the luscious red hair. _Hungry?_ He really doesn’t want to move. Ever. If it means never having a single bite again, so be it. He’ll just waste away right here, become skin and bone and then dust…

 _“Uh-hmm.”_ Gothmog’s free to interpret that how he will, Maeglin thinks, running a slow hand over the shapely forearm laid against him, feeling soft hair shift beneath his touch in a mesmerising way. He closes his eyes and tilts his head forward on the pillow to feel those gentle lips flit over his vertebrae, each touch electrified and felt in the base of his skull and tips of his toes. 

With a groan and a final kiss pressed against that knobbly spine, Gothmog rolls over, leaving his stained trousers on the floor and walks into the bathroom, grabbing for his washcloth. The hot water is blissful, taking away the stickiness at his groin, a slow pulse of pleasure running up his spine as he cleans himself. 

 

Wetting another cloth, Gothmog heads back into the bedroom, smiling at the sight of Maeglin stretched out on the duvet, several stains on the fabric making his cheeks heat a little. 

“Here,” he offers, pressing the cloth into Maeglin’s hand and stealing a quick kiss from his lips before turning to head for the kitchen, the growls from his midsection demanding attention just as the increasingly annoyed meows coming from that direction. Looking at Patches, Gothmog grins, his bad mood from earlier entirely forgotten. “Well, _you_ sound hungry, too, luv,” he rumbles, preparing her dish and accepting a tiny headbutt against his fingers in thanks before turning his attention towards feeding his _other stray_ as Maeglin put it last time. Humming an ancient tune, Gothmog stretches, the crumpled dress shirt rising up over his arse for a moment. Opening the fridge, he curses, staring at little more than a jar of pesto. Pushing the wall panel by the door, he feels slightly guilty when Jacques quietly amused voice comes through the speakers. 

“Something wrong?” There’s a host of unasked questions hiding in the simple query, and Gothmog knows that he couldn’t have a better man in his foyer – Jacques is not one for prying.

“Think I left my groceries in the car,” he admits, feeling sheepish as he runs a hand through his tousled hair, wincing at the dirty feel of it. A shower is definitely on the plan… perhaps even… 

_No, don’t get ahead of yourself, Balrogath._

“I shall send them up with the elevator,” Jacques replies, startling Gothmog out of his own mind with a blush he’s glad his friend cannot see. “I’ll buzz you when it’s there.”

“Thanks, Jacques,” Gothmog sighs, “I owe you one.”

“We’ll revisit that come Yuletide, sir,” Jacques replies, managing to keep his amusement from becoming outright laughter. 

“Aye, you’ll hold me to it, fer sure,” Gothmog says, chuckling to himself. “Good man.” 

 

Eventually Maeglin gets up, shucking out of his jeans and pulling off the sweaty tank top. He wipes his face and then uses the cloth Gothmog gave him to stem the flow of jizz while padding to the bathroom.

He gives it a better look now, eyes lingering on the big bath tub long enough for his brain to come up with a couple of nice images. _Maybe later_ – and he’s surprised how much easier the _later_ comes now. A little bemused, Maeglin turns on the water in the shower, swiftly scrubbing his armpits and groin and squatting down to carefully rinse his arse. When finished, he grabs a towel from the rack, humming with quiet pleasure when he discovers it’s warm.

_These are the kind of small luxuries I can get behind…_

A look in the mirror makes him stop, his gaze finding the row of purplish marks on his neck. A revenge must be distributed, hopefully tonight – something to look forward to, for sure.

Maeglin dresses quickly, giving the jeans a cursory glance before merely securing the towel around his hips and pulling on his tanktop, thankfully less soiled than he’d thought at first. 

_Fuck – it just never occurs to me to bring a set of spare clothes anywhere. Even when I show up specifically looking for sex. Fucking dumbass._

Fluffing up his hair, Maeglin opens the bedroom door and steps out, rounding up to the kitchen entrance. A devilish little smirk tilts his lips as he sneaks closer, placing his palms on the twin globes and squeezing.

“That looks real good,” he murmurs, standing up on his toes to nuzzle the flaming hair. It only then occurs to him to look what Gothmog’s working at. 

“It’s… just a sandwich,” Gothmog chuckles, turning his head to catch Maeglin’s lips with his own, “I figured you hadn’t eaten yet either. Hope you like chicken pesto. There’s a bit of mozzarella in it too…” He’s oddly nervous, though the kiss is sweet enough to take his mind off it – or stop him babbling, at least. The hand pinching his backside sends a jolt of pleasure through his nervous system, and if his own thoughts hadn’t made him half-hard already, Maeglin’s pleased hum and curious fingers surely would have managed easily. His stomach growls again. 

“It looks like a _great_ sandwich,” Maeglin says, taking his time gently raking his nails over the warm skin of Gothmog’s firm buttocks before slipping his hands to Gothmog’s hips. “I think we need to stock up some energy for later…” His fingers skim over the soft hair under Gothmog’s navel until Maeglin can link them together, pressing the heels of his palms against Gothmog’s warm skin. Then a little something from earlier shadows the near-bubbly cheer he’s been floating in the last hour. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he adds, “You… want me to stay a while, right?” 

“Mmm if you keep doing that, I might not let you leave till next _week_ ,” Gothmog groans, moving one hand down squeeze Maeglin’s fingers, drawing them away from his most likely – and interested – target. “I don’t know how you do this to me, Maeglin, but, _fuck_ …” Shaking his head, he turns around, pressing a hard kiss against Maeglin’s mouth, his tongue sneaking inside for a quick caress. Catching him by the back of the neck, he deepens the kiss, slows it to a sensual exploration before pulling back, looking into those lust-filled dark eyes with a smile. “But food first, my wee minx.”

Maeglin hisses in surprise, but the catty sound turns into a low, interested moan quicker than his mind manages to catch up. It’s one of those kisses that feel like sex, causing Maeglin’s cock to jump beneath the towel. He smiles when Gothmog pulls away, liking the look in those eyes – bluer than any ocean view in a photoshopped postcard – and reluctantly moves to give him room, kneeling to pet the curious kitten instead. He wonders if she remembers him, crowding his hand, her tail shivering straight up towards the ceiling.

“Have you grown? I’m sure you have grown. You look a little more like a cat now. But he feeds you – and everyone – so well, it’s no fucking wonder.”

Gothmog flushes at the praise – and a little at the way Maeglin’s arse is framed by the towel – and turns back to the two sandwiches, picking up the plates and a pair of glasses. “Water?” he asks, “Or milk… think I’ve some juice, too?” he adds, nodding towards the fridge. He might have just bought it, but he honestly can't remember what was in the bag Jacques sent up the elevator less than fifteen minutes ago. Licking his lips, he entertains the fantasy of having Maeglin sit in his lap as they eat, trying in vain to stem the tide of his resurging libido. Seating himself, he slides one plate towards Maeglin’s seat, along with the glass, part of him thankful that the table will hide his arousal for now. 

Maeglin straightens himself, turning towards Gothmog – only this time he’s got the cat in his arms, tail draped over his wrist, enjoying the loud _purrrhh_ against his chest as he strokes her beneath the chin.

“Hmm? Sorry, I couldn’t resist.” Maeglin presses his nose against the soft fur of Patches’ head, a twinkle in his eye, looking at Gothmog from between the twitching cat ears. “Water’s just fine.”

“I’m sure the wee Missy doesn’t mind,” Gothmog replies, wishing he had his phone nearby to take a picture of Maeglin looking so sweet and relaxed as his fingers run along Patches’ small body. She looks half asleep already, curled up and purring like Maman’s sewing machine. 

Maeglin gently lowers Patches to the floor and rinses possibly cat dander off his hands under the kitchen tap. Moving back to the table, he takes the offered seat; he considers dragging the chair over to Gothmog’s side instead, abandoning the whim a heartbeat later, thinking it might have been too much. He picks up his glass and drinks half of it in one go, then leans towards the jug to refill it.

“ _Just a sandwich_ , he says. Look at this thing,” Maeglin teases, giving Gothmog a subtle look from beneath his fringe, picking up his meal and sinking his teeth into it, making a bit of pesto leak over his fingers. “Well fuck you too, you juicy bastard.” 

Gothmog’s chuckle dies in his throat when Maeglin pops the finger into his mouth, licking off the oily green pesto with every sign of enjoyment. Closing his eyes, he tries to banish the memory of that same mouth stretched around _his_ fingers – _his cock_ – and bites into his own food, hoping Maeglin will take the moan he can’t contain as agreement about the deliciousness of the sandwich. For good measure, he nods. 

The food manages to distract him from the lust swirling through his veins, though Gothmog remains aware of Maeglin’s every move, a different sort of satisfaction filling him at the sight of him enjoying his food – food that _Gothmog_ made, no less, even if it _is_ just a sandwich. Pushing away his libido, he reaches for the glass of water and sips it slowly. “I’m glad you like it,” he smiles, picking up his own sandwich. Filling his empty stomach is only slightly less pleasurable than the sight of Maeglin sitting opposite him, eating with gusto, and Gothmog devotes his full focus to his food, realising how absolutely ravenous he truly is as soon as the first bite hits his empty stomach.

Maeglin wonders if that’s a small blush he sees passing Gothmog’s face, a smirk flirting with his lips at the sight. Having cleaned his fingers, he continues eating, a little more carefully this time so he doesn’t make a full mess, not wanting to seem like a kid without table manners.

“It’s so good,” he praises, “you eat this well every day?”

Ramen and toast feel like a pale excuse compared to this. He could do something like this at home, right? Buy some bread, this green thing… That comes in a jar, no? It could last a while in the fridge…

“I like to cook,” Gothmog says, “ever since I was a wean – a child – I’ve enjoyed being in a kitchen.” Gesturing with his sandwich, he grins at Maeglin, “I mean, you’ve met Olive – I’m practically a nephew to her – and maman would tell me to move back home _tout de suite_ if she got wind I wasnae being fed decent enough for her likings.” Nodding at Maeglin, he adds, “You? I got the feeling you weren’t the most advanced cook last time, but you do seem to enjoy a good eating.” Winking, he bites into his own sandwich, brazening out the double entendre when it smacks him in the face.

Maeglin manages to swallow the mouthful of water with some difficulty, giving Gothmog a slightly accusatory look while wiping his chin dry with a hand – when he thinks he’s safe and not drowning, he grins playfully, hoping there isn’t too much food stuck in his teeth. “I’m a _student_ ,” he points out. “I live on toast, pasta and microwave. But yeah, I do like to eat.” Lacing his voice with every possible meaning of that word, Maeglin is pleased by the way Gothmog’s eyes sparkle in response. “I can appreciate food, I just can’t cook it.” He smiles at a memory, fond. “I can skin a rabbit though, if that counts.”

“Your Da take you hunting?” Gothmog asks, nodding. 

“Yeah, he did. I could set a snare when I was five years old.” Maeglin pauses to chew a piece of his sandwich, a thoughtful frown marring his forehead for a second. “Then later, when I was big enough, he got me a bow. I got my first buck when I was…”

He doesn’t remember – it must have been just a year or two before…

“Well, not very old. We prepared the meat,” he adds, “but Mum turned it into food.” 

“My family prefer rifles,” Gothmog replies, “now that you mention it I’m not actually sure I’ve skinned a rabbit, though there’s plenty of the wee buggers around up the old farm way.” Shrugging, he grins, “We shoot mostly deer and a few boars, really. Wild boar is delicious.”

“Boars?” Maeglin asks, shuddering. “No thanks – that one time I met one, he drove me up a tree. I was stuck there for six hours. Traumatised for life. I never want to see a pig again if it’s not on my plate.” Maeglin shakes his head, looking up at Gothmog to see his reaction, daring him to laugh at that story.

“Aye, I wouldn’t want to meet one up close fer sure,” Gothmog agrees sagely, “though me Granda tells stories of spear-hunting ‘em when he was young. That’d give me the willies. Apparently, one of his uncles died from a goring.” Gothmog shivers; he’s seen what serrated knives can do to a man’s gut, and a wild boar is pretty much the same deal attached to at least half a ton of pure _raging hatred_. “Good for shooting and eating – and Maman loves the boar ivory bracelets Da made her; – he’s got a skill with metal: mostly makes jewellery and silver.” He can’t help but smile at the thought of his gruff Da in his ‘forge’ – the nickname Maman has given to his workshop/man-cave – trying to get the etchings in the silver _just_ right for her anniversary gift. Gothmog had shot the boar, but he’d never had the patience for such fine work as necessary to turn the tusks into something usable.

“Oh, that’s cool. The metalworking part, not the goring,” Maeglin adds, taking a sip of water and watching Gothmog. He finds he likes the look he gets when he’s talking about his family. _Many happy memories there_ , he thinks. “I can do a bit of that – I spent some time in Nogrod and Belegost as a kid. Father had business partners there.”

“Ever meet old Azaghâl? I think he’s the one taught Da,” Gothmog says, “he’d have been very old when you were a wean, mind, but he had the largest silver business up there.”

“Maybe…,” Maeglin ponders, “I had fun the first few days, but then I got bored with Dad’s friends and began exploring the place instead… there was one old guy who offered to show me how to smelt and work metal.” The name escapes him – not Azaghâl, though, but Aza-something – though he still remembers the kindly smile on the man’s face. “I watched him fold steel over and over again – he joked I was stealing his business secrets…” Maeglin chuckles at that, “As if I truly understood anything. But then one day he took me to the rock gallery, and I guess I sold my soul that day.” Looking up, he frowns a little, apologetic. “Sorry if that was totally boring...”

Gothmog has to smile, feeling a urge to reach across the table to smooth the light frown off Maeglin’s face. “You have a passion – it’s good to have a passion, Maeglin…” Having a passion… Gothmog has often wondered if that’s what life truly is, if that’s the way to regain the humanity you sacrifice in war no matter your intentions. For him, it was boxing and building – _creating lasting joy and beauty_ – for Jacques it turned out to be gardening. The rooftop garden just above their heads is almost entirely Jacques’ doing. For Glorfindel it was the study of sociology and molding young minds… “Mind, if you start talking about stratas and whatnot, I reserve the right to find other uses for your mouth, but I _like_ your passion.” He gets more than enough of that when the he meets with the Board of Balrog, after all.

Maeglin smiles faintly at the joked threat, knowing full well he’s not going start a lecture about sediment when he’s flunked two courses in a row about the subject – the rest of the words he agrees with, knowing he has skills far more useful to Gothmog. 

Swallowing the last bite, Gothmog feels calm lassitude fill him, languid like treacle and warming like a river of lava through the soul. “Want to… watch a film?” He almost asks if Maeglin wants a repeat of his earlier display of passion, but really he was raised better than this horny savage he’s been portraying so far. “I’d like a shower, first, but I hadn’t really made any plans for my evening before you showed up…”

Maeglin finishes off his sandwich, brushing crumbs off his hands and wiping his mouth with a napkin from the stand between them. “I… don’t mind.” Well, yes he fucking _minds_ , because he kind of just wants to go back to the bedroom. Then again, the offer for a movie means he’s welcome to stay for longer – and maybe there’s room for a movie in that plan. 

Rising from his chair, slow and fluid, he rounds the table, pulling his top off over his head and tugging loose his towel – then looks at Gothmog while standing there as naked as the day he was born, his eyes hooded and dark and inviting. 

 _He wants me to stay_ , he thinks, as if to silence that little voice that keeps whispering the opposite. He’s got enough proof now. It might be fucked up, but so are many other things, and compared to some – fucking with someone so out of your league in every way is hardly the worst thing. Maybe he can wing this. Maybe they can somehow figure this out.

Raising a hand, Maeglin brushes his fingers over the freckled cheekbone, gently nudging hair back behind one ear. “You want company for that shower?” he purrs. He can already feel the heat of Gothmog’s skin from here, and his body wanting it.

For a moment, Gothmog closes his eyes, focusing on simply breathing, the light fingers on his face a soft pleasure compared to the embers it lights in his skin, trailing down to pool in his groin. 

He stands. 

He’s not ashamed of just how much Maeglin will see the answer to his question, catching him around the waist to pull him closer. 

Leaning down, he rubs his lips against Maeglin’s, teasing him into a kiss as one hand moves down to grab a nearly possessive hold of his buttock. 

“I think that’s a _very_ good idea,” he purrs between heady kisses, fingers kneading that tempting arse. With a light smack to one cheek, he pulls away, brushing past Maeglin – copping a feel in passing, because why not? – and unbuttons his shirt as he walks, letting the creased bit of fabric fall to the floor at the door to his bedroom. “You can wash my back.”

 

 

For a second Maeglin stands there, swaying and a tad confused, flushed and half-hard. Then a slow smile spreads across his face, and he picks up the towel he’d dropped on the floor, tiptoeing after Gothmog.

The steady hum of water interrupted by movement makes him stop for a moment, standing at the doorway with the towel draped over his arm. It’s not that he’s in any less rush to join Gothmog, of course – he’s stunned by the view. And damn, but watching Gothmog’s perfectly chiselled body, framed by the clear glass walls of his shower and obscured only by stray droplets… is _so_ worth it. 

_Quality fucking Art, right there._

Maeglin wishes he could paint this, or photograph and print it, keeping it under his ratty pillow for when he inevitably finds himself thinking there’s nothing good and whole in this world – or when he needs a reminder that someone like _that_ wants _him_.

Maeglin’s mouth waters. Placing the towel on the edge of the tub, he takes himself in hand instead, his eyes intent on the impressive profile of that beautiful cock, full but not-yet entirely hard and bouncing a little as Gothmog moves, soaping his armpits.

“Enjoying the view?” Gothmog smirks, leaning into the water and facing Maeglin, that wanton display making him reach for his own cock, stroking himself slowly. Playing with the piercings running along the underside makes him shiver with need; the small pieces of metal resting against his glans turn each stroke into something almost electric. 

“The shitty thing about views is that you can only look at them,” Maeglin says, a quiver running up his spine as he thumbs his slit, then looks up from Gothmog’s handiwork to meet his eyes. “I hope you’re going to give me more than that.”

“Well, from where _I’m_ standing, the view’s pretty good, too,” Gothmog nods, “but I think someone was meant to be washing my back…” Chuckling, he lets go of himself to beckon Maeglin closer, “and this place seems suddenly mighty lonely indeed… care to lend a hand?” 

Maeglin doesn’t tarry at that – it’d have felt like sacrilege, really – and joins Gothmog under the stream. Water doesn’t beat him down but falls on him gently, warm and pleasant – but isn’t anywhere near as warm and pleasant as the wet chest he presses himself into. Maeglin freely admits he has wandering hands, feeling Gothmog’s smooth flanks beneath his fingertips, pinching one firm buttock before he gets his arms wrapped around Gothmog’s waist and his fingers find those sweet dimples in his lower back, rubbing slowly back and forth.

“Just your back, hmm?” he breathes against the broad shoulder, pressing a slow kiss there. 

“Well, I have a feeling you’re in the better position to tell me if I’ve missed any spots,” Gothmog teases, giving Maeglin a slow kiss before turning around. With a grin, Gothmog begins to rub shampoo through his long locks, enjoying the small touches. 

Nuzzling against the water-slick skin, Maeglin finds the ridge of Gothmog’s shoulder, running his mouth over it until he finds a good place, sucking at the freckled skin until he’s certain there will be something of him left for some time. The thought causes a hot flush of possessiveness run through him, makes him buck his slender hips against Gothmog’s muscular buttocks – even if he has to stand up on his toes to do so.

Maeglin’s fingers seem to be everywhere, his lips busy marking up the flesh he can reach and his interest firm enough no one could mistake it for anything else pressed against Gothmog’s arse. Having Maeglin behind him is _good_ but it’s also not _enough_. Gothmog wants to see him, wants to repaint those moments of memory he’s carried around since their first time, feeling his stomach muscles quiver lightly beneath Maeglin’s curious fingers. Turning around, he tilts the dark head up for another kiss that tastes a little herby from their dinner but seems all the better for it, somehow adding a touch of reality to this fantasy come to life he’s found himself in. Pouring another glob into his palm, he pushes his fingers through Maeglin’s wet locks, scrubbing in slow circles as the kiss continues to drug his mind in pleasure, his cock poking Maeglin’s hip with some insistence.

Maeglin doesn’t know what to focus on – there’s too much good stimuli surrounding him, from the wet tongue sliding against his to the hot slippery meat poking him with clear intention, to the fingers in his hair causing entirely different but no less intense sensations. 

“I might shower here more often if the service is this good,” he mumbles, smiling into the kiss, eyes closed, gamely pushing against Gothmog with his own interest, enjoying the slippery texture of his skin too much for his hands to stay in one place for long. 

Licking his way into Maeglin’s mouth, Gothmog leans back, tugging his head under the spray as his fingers continue to play through the dark curls, soapy suds running down Maeglin’s back.

Reaching out blindly, lips molding to Gothmog’s with ease, Maeglin grabs the bottle he thinks says shower gel in Vanyarin, pulling back a little. It’s creamy and nice in Maeglin’s hands, and he takes great, almost child-like pleasure in lathering Gothmog’s chest hair with it, grinning up at him when he moves below his navel and cups his heavy balls with a soapy hand.

“I have been told my fingers are magic,” Gothmog teases, trying to hold back the moan threatening to escape his throat at the slippery feel of playful fingers against his skin and presses his forehead against Maeglin’s, watching those clever fingers play with his nipple rings. His own hands, grasping for purpose, find Maeglin’s hips – it’s almost strange how familiar those juts of bone are to him already – before coming around to cup his arse, bringing him in close enough that Gothmog can frot against him, his fingers flexing in time with the motion of his hips.

The sound Maeglin makes is half-way between a moan and a sigh, almost lost to the hum of water. The slippery slide of Gothmog’s cock against him feels heavenly, and he leans in for another kiss, slow and wet, pulling Gothmog’s lips between his one by one and gently suckling on them, tickling the soft skin with the tip of his tongue. He lets Gothmog move against him, toes tickling Gothmog’s on the tiles, and _fuck if it isn’t nice to be like this_ , head to toe, feeling all that strength so thoroughly and pressed so close. Maeglin feels himself twitch with interest, trapped somewhere between them, and he lets his own hands find the cute little dimples above Gothmog’s buttocks again, then travel upward with moderate pressure to dig into the hardness of his tight back.

“Yeah? You’re a wizard too?” he asks, soft humour in his voice. 

Running his hands up the curve of Maeglin’s spine, Gothmog enjoys the warm water falling onto his skin, the languid feeling of once-sated desire coursing through him like syrup. Reaching between them for a moment, he lines Maeglin’s cock up with his own, the counterpoint rocking ratcheting up the fire in his blood. Tilting his head, he lets Maeglin take up space beneath his beard, sucking marks no one but Gothmog will find into the soft skin until he is moaning with delight. He can’t keep off the tempting curve of his arse for long, of course, exploring every part of skin he can reach, tickling Maeglin’s thighs and running light touches through his crack in passing. 

“A Wizard, hmm?” he murmurs, nipping at the tip of Maeglin’s ear, “would that make you my woodland sprite, conjured from imagination?” A row of tiny nibbles and kisses along the shell of Maeglin’s ear follows, until Gothmog gets down to that spot on his neck that made him so pliant in another shower. “Or are you a tempting incubus and I a summoner of demons?”

 _“Mmm – fuck…”_ Some kind of wicked combination of kisses to his sensitive neck and slippery pressure against his shaft makes Maeglin reach out to support himself against the glass wall, the hand smacking against the surface creating an echoing thud in the space. He bites his lip, recalling some semblance of sanity, and gives Gothmog a hot, dark look, cheeks pink.

“I can be those things for you… That into roleplay?” His lips quirk, the hand he’d thrown out reaching back towards Gothmog, winding into the thick, waterlogged hair. “If you need a sly creature to fulfil your deepest desires, or wish to be seduced by dark forces…” _Void, I really wouldn’t mind._ He already knows he’d go to some lengths to keep this man’s attention. Reaching between them, Maeglin squeezes the magnificent hardness, giving it a couple of slow tugs before slipping from between the thick arms, kneeling on the warmed tiles and licking a slow stripe along that flushed length. “I could be your guy.”

Pausing only to draw wet hair from his face, Maeglin swallows the head, tasting a hint of salt the water hadn’t managed to wash away. 

Gothmog chuckles, “Sexy wee-ah!” The words turn into a moan halfway through as Maeglin hits a perfect spot. “ _Minx_.”

Smiling, Maeglin runs his tongue over the smooth skin, then flattens it against the floor of his mouth and presses forward, lips closing around the girth which is almost enough to dislocate his jaw.

Winding his hands through Maeglin’s dark hair, Gothmog tugs the strands out of his face, running the back of his knuckles down one bulging cheek. 

Maeglin looks up, droplets running down his face, and tries to be careful about not inhaling water through his nose.

Because that’d be terribly unsexy.

“Fuck, you’re good at this…” Too good, really, at stoking the flames higher and higher until he feels like he’s about to blow. “So pretty with your mouth full, darling…” Gothmog groans, letting his head fall back against the tiles, eyes half-closed as he looks down at Maeglin’s self-satisfied eyes. Closing his eyes, he tries not to be swept away by the tide of pleasure. 

Maeglin would smile if he could, wondering if Gothmog can see his pleasure from his eyes – or the way he brings his hand down between his legs, cupping himself briefly and then pulling at his hardness, thumbing himself just the way he likes. The nails of his free hand rake over the fuzz of one hard thigh, fingertips feeling the way it quivers a little. He keeps moving his mouth, letting the head push into his throat and then slip back over his slick tongue until he can roll the tip of it around the piercing, remembering how much Gothmog likes it when he touches it.

The honest praise hits right home, causing Maeglin to moan around his treat while his hand squeezes his cock a little harder, the weepy, flushed head peeking from the cage of his fingers. There are words… and there are _words_.

Gothmog scratches gently through Maeglin’s hair, running fingertips over his bulging cheek and down across his jaw to feel himself press into that heavenly throat from the outside. “I think _you’re_ the wizard,” he moans, pressing forward a little, trying to still his hips enough he doesn’t overwhelm the guy. “Your tongue is fucking _magic_.”

Maeglin doesn’t really think about it when his touch shifts around Gothmog’s thigh, teasing the crease between cheek and leg, then slips a little deeper to brush over the warm crevice – feeling the soft thin skin between the hard buttocks makes pleasure pulse inside him in a sudden jolt, but also forces Maeglin to remember himself, realising he doesn’t know if that’s a cool thing to do. Some don’t like it when he touches them there – Maeglin doesn’t get it, but he’s learned to respect it after a couple of not-so-savoury instances.

Widening his stance, Gothmog moans deep in his throat, the curious skittering of Maeglin’s fingers over his skin a counterpoint of delight to the way his tongue dances around the head of his cock. 

“You’re… going to make me come...like this?” he wonders, mustering up the wherewithal to spare a thought for Maeglin’s knees. The steamy room won’t let either of them get cold even without being under the spray, but still.

Maeglin throws a look upwards and continues sucking Gothmog’s cock, withdrawing his fingers an inch from where they’d ended up just in case. 

Gothmog’s musings are interrupted by the curious touch freezing and then slipping away, Maeglin’s furtive glance off to the side a little odd until his brain connects the two.

Cupping Maeglin’s face, Gothmog draws him back gently, his cock popping free with a loud sound that makes him groan and want to thrust back home. “You can touch me,” he whispers, like it’s a secret, wiping a string of drool off Maeglin’s chin with his thumb, tracing his plump lower lip slowly. 

Maeglin swallows through the lingering discomfort in his throat, gaze directed upward over the proud swell of cock and chiselled abdomen, wondering about his strange good luck as he licks his swollen lips, tasting _man_ on them. Gothmog has no idea Maeglin’s been slapped for making this assumption before, but the look in his eyes is so gentle that Maeglin has no desire to tell him. Maybe people on this side of the world are better, after all.

He smiles instead, hoping that conveys all that needs to go across, and kisses the tip of the finger before shifting a little on his knees, ignoring the slight twinge of pain in favour of pressing forward again, taking the whole thing down to the root and swallowing around it.

“I’ll tell you if I don’t like something,” Gothmog begins, ending on a loud groan when Maeglin continues to prove his magic powers. _We need_ … but the thought disappears before Gothmog can find its true shape through the pleasure flooding his brain.

Having the permission now, Maeglin does more than uses Gothmog’s body for support, drawing his fingertips across the tight expanse of round muscle – absentmindedly wondering how many squats this hulk does daily – and dragging his touch gently over the veiled bump of tailbone, reverent in his art appreciation when he moves lower and briefly over the furrowed warm-skinned hole, down to the space behind the heavy balls where he lets himself press in a bit firmer to see whether that’s welcomed.

His own cock remains hard in his hand, stroked slowly in time with the bobbing of his dark head. Void, he doesn’t mind being down here at all if it means he’s going to get more of those looks while doing his fucking best trying to make Gothmog _need_ this with his whole body and soul…

When Maeglin finds the spot, Gothmog expects it but feels overwhelmed nonetheless, his hips bucking without conscious command to do so, his grip on Maeglin’s hair tightening as he tries to get closer to that feeling of perfection. He tries to hold back, he really _does_ , but Maeglin is far too skilled at this game and part of Gothmog thinks he ought to have vetoed the way those fingers send tendrils of fire up his spine.

“You’re… going to make me cum,” he pants, thoughts going haywire, “if you keep this up… _Oh, Maeglin!_ – please…” 

He can’t speak, can’t _think_. Maeglin was great that first time but this… this is _heaven_ ; the warmth coursing down his skin with the spray of the showerhead competing with the snug velvet warmth of Maeglin’s throat stretching around him, sloppy and fucking _perfection_. 

“Maegl– _fuck!_ – Maegs!” Gothmog’s not sure if he’s begging for release or reprieve, part of him wanting to pull away, turn Maeglin around and fuck him beneath the warm water like he’d wanted to do at the gym and part of him never wanting to leave the sinfully soft mouth bringing him such pleasure. 

Maeglin hasn’t considered himself all that sensitive to the pleasure of others in the past, but Gothmog’s once more different – the way his voice and breathing change and how the fingers in Maeglin’s hair flex and tighten, how everything about him feels so fucking _honest_ when they’re naked together like this… all those things are enough to send Maeglin reeling inside, mist rising to his eyes as a flush invades his cheeks, hollowed around the thick hard rod.

He should be pulling at his own prick like a lunatic right now, but he isn’t – instead he shifts a little closer and lets go of his cock, wrapping both of his arms around the strong, freckled thighs and massaging the backs of them right up to the sinfully gorgeous buttocks. The slickened finger he’d used to toy with his own slit a moment ago, Maeglin rubs over the shy little hole he finds again – decidedly gentle while his mouth is merciless, pulling back to tongue at the piercing before diving right back in.

Maeglin’s strangled name from Gothmog’s lips gives him an additional boost, eyes shuttered in fierce concentration, and suddenly nothing matters as much as being able to hear it like this – not like a demand, not like a curse, but like a prayer, something Maeglin can answer to.

If this isn’t bliss, Gothmog doesn’t know what is; the slippery-slick feel of Maeglin’s tongue twists his mind into spiralling waves of pleasure licking at the base of his spine until he doesn’t know where he ends or begins, barely even remembers his own name, filled with nothing but rampant desire. “So good, Maegs, please, close, can’t,” Gothmog is babbling and he doesn’t even care, petting Maeglin’s hair in a weak attempt at a warning. “Fucking _gift–!_ ”

Maeglin feels it before it comes, in the way muscles quiver and tighten beneath his touch and the meaty shaft twitches against his palate. Oh, he fucking _wants_ it – this primal need to have that load and let it go down his gullet, feel it coat him from the inside, to keep it as a part of him _forever_.

Maeglin hums a quiet affirmative when he comes up for a bit of air, looking up at the bearded face while doubling his efforts, his own flushed cock leaking to the floor from where he kneels, neglected but not forgotten. In a whim, he presses a little inside with his finger – not enough to fully penetrate and hopefully not to hurt, but to heighten pleasure in a way he quite likes himself, hoping it’s a good call.

And then there’s that hot gush in the back of his throat, and it’s almost as satisfying as coming himself – or more. Times like these it’s too hard to tell, not with the way he’s got this big man shaking and coming undone for him.

Pure fucking pleasure and elation, that’s what it is. Maeglin drinks it down with eagerness, licking the last drops off the head and kissing it for good measure while smoothing his hands over Gothmog’s buttocks, looking up at him, wondering if there’s a good kind of heartache and if this is it. There just aren’t many things as wonderful, and certainly none quite as whole.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and barely making it above the steady sound of water, but it feels it’s one of those things that must be said. “I – I don’t think I can get enough of that…”

Gothmog’s fingers are still tangled in Maeglin’s hair when the spots stop dancing before his eyes, fragments reforming into a set of dark eyes in a pale face, Maeglin’s skin flush with pleasure. Gothmog smiles, petting him softly for a moment before sinking to his knees. Tugging Maeglin closer, he leans in, steadying himself with a hand on his thigh and kisses that glorious mouth in silent exultation. 

“You are so good at that,” he murmurs hoarsely, pressing the words into Maeglin’s mouth with his tongue, licking up the salt-bitter flavour that is himself in a kiss that’s equal parts gratitude and something dangerously close to loving. 

_Reverence._

The water still drums on his shoulders and head, making wet hair stick to his skin, but Maeglin tastes like pleasure and the feel of him drowns out all other sensations. 

_I don’t think I could ever be that good._

It’s a little melancholy, but Gothmog’s never been into self-delusion and he knows his strengths in the bedroom. The taste and feel of Maeglin’s lips make him _want_ to give another round, his cock twitching in a way that’s almost painfully oversensitive at the thought.

It’s a glorious kiss. Ridiculously so. The kind which puts your heart in your throat and makes you taste itself in it. Maeglin lets Gothmog lick into his overused, a little sore mouth, welcoming this taste of him to mingle with the thick, salty one – it’s dangerously good, too fucking precious. Maeglin hopes he can attribute the look on his face to lust when Gothmog pulls away, but something inside him tells him it’s not just that.

Drawing back, slightly regretful, Gothmog studies Maeglin, flushed with pleasure and need, suffused by something like pride when he licks his lips, his dark hair tangled by fingers and water both. It’s an image he wants to retain, to keep forever. 

 _Beautiful_. 

There’s another, more urgent and base matter demanding his attention – Maeglin smiles, draping one arm over Gothmog’s shoulder in a half-embrace, giving him a couple of kitten-lick gentle kisses while taking his hand, squeezing it for a second before putting it over his cock. The gentle touch is like a small lightning strike, he's so far gone already, making him moan and grit his teeth against the surge of pleasure and suddenly Gothmog doesn’t want to tease it out of him.

Gothmog moves his fingers with Maeglin’s, part of him wondering at the difference in their hands. His own is broad and large, making Maeglin’s seem almost dainty in comparison, even though it’s not that small compared to others. His fingers are thick though dextrous but Maeglin’s touch is nimble, his slender fingers those of a pianist – perhaps that’s why he’s so good at playing Gothmog’s body. The thought appears in his mind, eliciting a small smile that Gothmog smothers against Maeglin’s mouth in a panting kiss as he stokes him higher. 

“I don’t need much, I – I’m almost there…” Maeglin bites his lip, presses his forehead against Gothmog’s, urges his hand to move along with his. “I just want to cum so bad, yeah?”

He shivers as if the water wasn’t all nice and warm, small hairs rising along his arms, glistening with tiny droplets clinging to their lengths.

“Yer gonna make a mess o me again, aren’ ye,” he rumbles softly, remembering that Maeglin enjoyed the gravelly register his voice drops into with lust and satisfaction the last time. “Coming all over my chest, _yes_ , cum for me, _Maeglin…_ ”

 _“Oh, Gods…”_ Maeglin wants to kiss Gothmog again – but if he does, he won’t hear him talk like that, and that’d be all kinds of wrong. Scrunching his eyes shut, he at first lowers his head on Gothmog’s shoulder, huffing hot breaths against his collarbone, but then raises it from there to press it back against Gothmog’s – feeling this visceral need to look him in the eye while he feels his pleasure build and threaten him, making his hips buck up to thrust into their shared hold.

_“Yes – just like that – please fucking touch me, I –”_

It wasn’t far off to begin with, not with the way he’d got to pleasure Gothmog with his mouth, but when it hits him it’s somehow a small surprise, still – shooting out of him with enough force to make him keen and tremble, falling into an almost violent kiss at the brink of it while squeezing Gothmog closer to him, and the hard floor tiles hardly matter when everything else is just too fucking perfect and –

“I don’t – I don’t want to let go.”

It’s a weird, stupid thing to say; Maeglin flushes, closes his eyes, wondering where the fuck that came from and if he could somehow take it back.

At least they’re in the shower already, so it doesn’t matter that he’s indeed made a mess of them, his spent cock still twitching in their grasp and looking all too guilty.

Gothmog hums a soft sound when it’s over, taking Maeglin’s admission as some sort of post-coital nonsense, and kisses him slowly. Reaching up above himself, he flicks the tap, turning on the smaller detachable shower head. Running water through Maeglin’s hair first, he ensures that all the shampoo has been washed away before turning the spray of water to wash away Maeglin’s cum, splattered across the both of them, his right hand enjoying the feeling of Maeglin softening in his grasp. Finally, he has to let go, rising to his now-steady feet and rinsing himself clean before offering Maeglin a hand up, turning the overhead rainfall back on and leaving him beneath the warm water with a kiss.

 

Stepping out of the shower, Gothmog flings a towel around his waist and picks up another to semi-dry his own hair as he steps into the bedroom. The linens have a thick weave but the obvious stains of almost-dried cum make him wrinkle his nose slightly. Pulling the covers off the duvet, he bundles up the soiled fabric and finds a new set in the cupboard, making the bed with military swiftness even if this bed is miles better than any the army ever offered. 

Hearing the water turn off, he walks into the kitchen, checking that Patches is doing well and refilling her water before brewing a pot of tea. Stretching, he feels the kind of limber that only hard exercise or good sex brings, no tension to be found anywhere in his big frame and smiles softly. 

Maeglin has to spend a moment supporting himself against the wall after Gothmog leaves, taking the warmth and shelter of his arms with him. He’s starting to get used to Gothmog kicking another gear in after sex, though there’s a part of him still wishing he’d just have carried him to bed for a while, to dry up against each other’s skin.

Maeglin follows his lover after a moment, chasing the chill out of his bones by rubbing his skin vigorously with the towel he’d left behind – fluffing out his hair up to his best capability in front of the mirror before following Gothmog, buttoning up his jeans as he saunters off to the kitchen, towel laid over his shoulders.

Once again, Maeglin needs to stop for a moment just to look at the man, trying to press every detail into his memory – from the way he moves, too graceful for someone so big, and how light glints off him in a way that can only be complimenting, somehow making perfect even _better_. Gothmog’s inspiring.

“I’ve heard of sex smokes, but after-sex-tea is a new one for me,” he teases, helping himself to a glass of water.

“If you’d rather coffee, I could make you some?” Gothmog asks, setting two mugs on a tray besides a small plate of cookies that Olive pressed on him when he swung by during lunch hour to look at a flickering light fixture. The sight of Maeglin in jeans and nothing else is erotic, but it also makes him more keenly aware of his own nakedness beneath the low-slung towel around his hips. “I… just thought a cuppa would be nice and relaxing… you’re wearing clothes.” The inane comment makes him flush slightly, but he can’t help but feel a stab of disappointment at the thought that Maeglin will just up and leave now that he’s got what he so clearly came for. 

Maeglin might not be a people-person, but he _is_ able to sense the shifts in people’s moods – a necessity for survival _–_ and Gothmog’s earlier glow has clouded over. Flushing slightly – _is it conceited to think I’m responsible?_ – he thumbs the belt loop at his hip, trying to work out what he did to cause that look on Gothmog’s face. 

Picking up a cookie, Gothmog stuffs it into his mouth in a single bite to stop himself saying anything else equally silly, suddenly tense. The pot of tea joins the somewhat forlorn-looking mugs on the tray. He isn’t quite sure what to do next – he rather expected Maeglin to _stay_ in the bedroom, to wait for him with a smile and an offer of cuddling while they watched whatever movie he fancied, but now it seems like that plan only existed in his own head.

For once, Maeglin decides not to take everything personally. He can at least pretend a little hope along with some feigned ignorance.

“I thought you said something about a movie,” he murmurs, slipping closer and sliding his hands up Gothmog’s arms until he can link his fingers together behind his neck, an attempt at a soft smile on his lips. “And – well, I don’t know about you, but I have enough respect for your furniture not to sit bare-arsed on it, especially when there might still be something coming _out…_ ”

Gothmog steals a kiss, just because, reaching down to pinch Maeglin’s arse once. “Well, I _was_ planning to head back to bed, have a cuppa, and see what we could find to stream…” he murmurs, trapping Maeglin’s plump bottom lip between his for a small kiss. “If you fancy it?”

Maeglin smiles through the kiss, tilting his hips against Gothmog, all coquettish. “Oh – so back to bed?” The smile turns into a grin. “No objections here. None.”

“Lead the way, you wee tease,” Gothmog growls playfully, smacking Maeglin’s arse lightly before turning to pick up the tray. 

Maeglin suppresses a small yelp at the big hand coming down on his cheek – it didn’t _hurt_ , really, but the feel of Gothmog’s warm palm smacking against his flesh makes more than one delicious thought sprint across his mind – feeling his face heat. Dragging Gothmog back to the bedroom by the hand is out, at least while he’s holding a tray with hot tea, but Maeglin does his best to put a little of extra swagger into his steps, hoping Gothmog continues to appreciate the plumpest part of him. 

 _Definitely a case of ‘Hate to see you go, love to watch you leave’_ , Gothmog thinks, quietly amused though admittedly aroused, too, the hypnotic sway of Maeglin’s hips pulling him towards the bedroom with his cock leading the way.

The sheets are new, but there’s still a faint scent of sex in the air, a fact that never fails to get Maeglin back in the mood. Tossing the towel towards the bathroom, he shimmies out of his jeans, flouncing onto the bed as dramatically as he knows how, well aware – almost counting on it, truthfully – that Gothmog can see his semi.

 _Movie_ , he reminds himself, _cut down the fucking hormones. You aren’t seventeen anymore._

“Get in here, Lavalocks,” Maeglin says, delving under the duvet and patting the space beside him.

The sweet little hip bounce Maeglin does as he steps out of those jeans, flopping onto the bed like he’s auditioning for a certain part in _Titanic_ makes Gothmog smile and want to kiss him. The summons to his own bed make him chuckle. He got more than a glimpse before Maeglin burrowed under the duvet and while he’s still not exactly _soft_ himself, he kind of wants to take it slow this time, savour it a little more than they’ve managed so far. _Cheeky wee tease_ , he thinks, folding out the legs cleverly hidden beneath his tray to place it over Maeglin’s studiously prone form. Plumping up the pillows and adding a few extra from the cupboard, he crawls into bed naked, keenly aware of Maeglin’s roving eyes when he drops _his_ towel. 

“Like what you see, eh, kitten,” he purrs, letting him have one long look before getting under the covers, hardly surprised when Maeglin scoots close enough that the only thing to do is wrap an arm around him, bringing him in for a cuddle as his other hand reaches for the remote. “What are you in the mood for?” he asks, drawing tiny circles on Maeglin’s bared shoulder.

Maeglin raises an eyebrow at the pet name, but doesn’t comment on it, picking up a biscuit instead and taking a bite out of it. Gothmog’s bed is going to be full of crumbs in no time, but somehow he seems like the type to snack in bed.

“I’m not picky – but really, I don’t have the stomach for syrupy rom-coms.” Maeglin raises a hand, gently raking his nails through Gothmog’s chest hair.  It’s wonderful to have that solid piece of fire next to him, wrapped all around him. A giant fucking heating pad, that’s what Gothmog is. Maeglin wonders if that’s something he could get addicted to. Probably yes. He’d rather have pebbled skin out of arousal than cold.

 _Gods that chest is all sorts of amazing._ He spends a moment trailing the outline of a tattoo, reminding himself that he should ask about Gothmog’s stamps at some point. “I like adventures. A little bit of magic. Nothing too real and boring. Give me two hours of wonder anytime.”

He winks.

“Adventures and wonder, eh?” Gothmog smirks, trailing a hand down to brush lightly against Maeglin’s side, careful not to tickle. “A good old-fashioned jungle/ruins romp? Beren and the Tomb of Bats?” Of course, he’s seen it before; Valya Rauka, Thuringwethil’s mother, is the female lead and the movie was filmed partially on his own family estate, but that hardly matters to his enjoyment of the film – or the company. Flicking the remote makes the hatch in the ceiling open, letting the tv appear with a whir of perfectly calibrated engineering that never fails to make him smile. 

Maeglin had expected them to huddle over a computer screen, so his eyes go wide at the sight of the TV coming down from the ceiling like a theatre prop. It’s ridiculously extra, really – if Maeglin had that he’d just stay in bed and watch porn all day. Glancing at Gothmog, he wonders if that’s the main function of the thing.

“That’s one of my favourites,” he says, helping himself to another biscuit – _fuck those are good_ – and washing it down with a sip of tea. “Beren was like fifty-five percent of my sexual awakening.” He shifts a little under the duvet, careful to not upset the tray, and lays his hand over Gothmog’s thigh beneath the blanket. “Oh, an interesting question – did you have a celebrity crush like that? Or how’d you figure out you like guys?” _Guys too_ , Maeglin adds, but lets that stay unsaid.

Gothmog blushes, keeping his gaze firmly on the on-screen Beren, ruggedly handsome though he’s not Gothmog’s male fantasy come to life… anymore. “No… He was one of mine too, I think, though probably not for the same reason.” Then he chuckles, “I kissed him once, you know.”

Maeglin drops his cookie – then, very, _very_ slowly turns to look at Gothmog, eyes intent on finding the tell for a lie. “You’re shitting me.”

“Nop,” Gothmog replies, popping the p gleefully. “They filmed this at my family estate,” he admits, nodding at the screen where Beren makes a striking if muddy figure, “Maman threw a Yuletide ball for the cast and crew. I was 15… Mistletoe.” Turning, he winks at Maeglin,” But I wouldn’t say he was my first…” That had been another boy at ballet school, actually, those long slender limbs he’s always had a thing for almost irresistible in tights. The flexibility of a passionate dancer, of course, is nothing to scoff at, and he still thinks fondly of Liltaro – and he still goes to see the ballet shows when Lil is in town, too, even though they’re simply childhood friends now. 

Maeglin feels his tongue slowly drying up and closes his mouth with a click. That was entirely too much information to take in such a short amount of time – he feels a little faint, and it’s a good thing they’re in bed already. “Family est… – wait. _Who_ are you guys exactly? How did – why – I mean…” Maeglin sighs, perplexed, though there’s a hint of begrudging admiration breaking through his confusion now. “ _Beren kissed you under a mistletoe?_ The giant house in this film is _yours_?”

He watches Gothmog, a small frown lingering between his brows. The flashing lights on the screen paint the man in different colours, throwing shadows across his freckled face. He’s beautiful and has seen way too much cool stuff in his life, and Maeglin suddenly has no fucking idea why Gothmog would find _him_ interesting, out of all people. He could be out there kissing all the Berens, not here spoiling a poor boy from the hoods.

“ _My Clan’s_ ,” Gothmog stresses. “I mean, only crazy Aunt Ungolia _actually_ lives there now – it was turned into a resort years ago – my parents live in a smaller house down the village. And I told you,” suddenly he feels slightly uncomfortable at Maeglin’s utter disbelief, “my name is Balrogath – you study geology, no? You might know of us by the company name, Balrog Oil and Gas, or Balrog Mining?” He shrugs. “My Da was an overseer until he retired – now he’s on the board. Maman is a painter – she used to do ballet, that’s how she met my Da and well… the rest is history.” Almost on cue, the camera pans across a small village overlooked by the giant manor house on the hill. “That’s the place I grew up, just there by the river.”

Maeglin turns his head, looking at the beautiful house he’s seen on the screen so many times since he was a teenager, and he can’t deny there’s a thin sheen of mist in his eyes at the thought of that house being an actual home to someone, walls which have seen kids frolicking around and movie history been made… He finds Gothmog’s hand and squeezes it in quiet apology.

“Yeah, yeah I know of them. I just didn’t connect it to _you,_ ” Maeglin says, offering a small smile. “Sounds like a good and interesting childhood.”

It sounds like a fucking dream. Like a movie.

Gothmog laughs. “My Gran lived up there when I was a wean with her sister Ungolia – she never married – and I spent a lot of time up on the hill; the park up there was great for playing and Gran always had my favourite cookies.” Taking one from the tray, he grins, “Though Olive’s trying to beat her, I’m sure.” 

Maeglin shakes his head, amused, and picks up the biscuit he’d dropped. These are excellent cookies – Maeglin has hard time imagining something could beat them, but Gothmog’s thrashing expectations left and right. Maybe it’s a family trait. “Well if you wanted to make me impressed,” he muses, “plus a tiny bit jealous, and kind of intimidated, you’ve certainly succeeded.” Popping the biscuit into his mouth, he chews slowly, thoughtful for a moment, then looks up with a wry smile. “Have to admit though… I’m still thinking about _you_ kissing _him_. Just… not as a fucking teenager, you know.”

“I think he was actually standing about there when we kissed,” Gothmog says, nodding at Beren, now standing in the grand ballroom with Valya’s character. “I’ll have you know I was as tall as him at 15,” he adds, “though much more... gangly.” He hadn’t been, not really; one thing ballet taught you was grace of motion after all, but he’d been slender though the bulk he’d inherited from his father’s side of things had already begun to show, the big bones of a Balrogath undeniable even in a skinny teen. Then he chuckles, “And like I said, my tastes now don’t really run to guys like that – had enough of scruffy muscle-bound blokes in the forces, really – never have been attracted to men of the ‘bear’ type…” Turning his head, he presses Maeglin into he mattress with a deep kiss that tastes like tea and sweet cookies and alarmingly like home, drawing back to whisper a soft, “I like kissing men like _you_ more.”

_Gods that man can kiss._

It’s like a perfect brain wipe. The softness of pink lips, the texture of _luxurious_ – yes that’s a good word for it – hair, the tongue which knows what it wants and makes art out of it. Maeglin utters a soft noise, lifting a hand to stroke through the still slightly damp hair. It smells fragrant, good. Everything’s so fucking _good_ , and Maeglin feels his soul throbbing in his loins by the time Gothmog pulls back.

“What kind of man am I?” he asks, eyes hooded and lips wet and parted, the movie nearly forgotten. Gothmog’s eyes are dark in this light, like the sea at night.

“A prickly wee greedy bottom,” Gothmog rumbles, “with a voice kink, and a personality I’d like to know better. Also a sweet tooth, I think,” he adds, running a finger down Maeglin’s side, “though it doesn’t show.” Lying back after one more slow kiss, he points at the screen where rain makes Beren’s skin glisten, “and a fan of Beren, which I’ll take as a positive.” Flexing the thick arm wrapped around Maeglin, he grins, knowing that _his_ physique is a few steps more impressive than the ruggedly handsome actor.

“Oh yeah?” Maeglin licks his lips, pushes himself a little straighter in the wake of Gothmog’s retreat. “You aren’t wrong.” For a moment, he merely leans his head against the round-muscled shoulder, quietly enjoying the warmth of Gothmog’s body while watching Beren’s adventure progress on-screen. He could probably cite every line of dialogue out of memory, but he’s never watched Tomb of Bats with such good and interesting company.

Gothmog’s frank assessment has brought up an old realisation and although Maeglin is hesitant to bring it up, here and now when they somehow have reached this place of fleeting peace, in the end he can’t help it any more than he could stop himself leaning into the warmth of the body beside him.

“…You knew my father in the army, didn’t you? Eöl… he was a sergeant.”

Eöl had had few friends outside of his military buddies, stern people who’d occasionally come over with goods they’d exchange for meat and leather – who’d sometimes sit on the porch long into the night with him, talking so few words that little critters would come out and go about their business despite their presence. After his discharge, they’d stopped coming – Maeglin wonders how much Gothmog knows.

It’s a disconcerting thought.

“Wait, _your_ Eöl is old Silver Fox Sarge?” Gothmog gapes, turning his head to stare at Maeglin. He may not have seen the man for more than a decade, but it’s not difficult for Gothmog to recall the weathered face of the old sergeant. “I… hadn’t realised…” Except now that he _knows_ , it’s as obvious as the nose on Maeglin’s face – some sires stamp their get, as Gran would have said – and if he takes a few decades and some scars off of his memory of Sergeant Eöl, Maeglin would be his spitting image. “Aye, he was an officer when I joined up back in… well, more than a decade ago now – ‘06. Used to call him ‘Silver Fox’, I recall, because he walked so silently...Good sergeant, really, though he was discharged just after I left basic, so I can’t claim I truly knew him.” 

The bewildered look on Gothmog’s face is something new – Maeglin watches emotions and memories play across it, dots connecting as the man speaks, summoning forth things that seem like a lifetime ago. Maybe it is that. Maeglin can’t help wondering if his father knew Gothmog better than Gothmog seems to have known him – likely. There must be a reason Eöl sent Maeglin to Gothmog’s gym, after all. 

Maeglin nods, quiet, feeling his father’s presence strong in the room as if those simple words had just called upon him, a living ghost. “Yeah.” _Can a monster know a good man when he meets one?_

“I know he’s in jail now, killed some civilian what I heard. The drink, I suppose,” Gothmog sighs, figuring it’s better to admit knowledge than keep it quiet. Scrubbing a hand across his face, he determinedly thinks of something else, staring at the hypnotic sight of Valya Rauka – who was always a stunningly gorgeous woman – bouncing down the stairs of the tomb in what can only be called a shift by the most gracious of overstatements; the garment leaves little doubt about Mrs. Rauka’s _assets_ , and Thuri used to close her eyes whenever that scene came on, accusing him of perving on her mum. The thought of her teenage embarrassment is enough to take Gothmog’s mind away from war, though Maeglin stiffening against him steals the smile from his face before it forms. 

Maeglin’s eyes press closed as his jaw works at the tension which has appeared there, his hands turning into fists under the duvet. Back then he had avoided any rumours like the plague, sought shitty company where everyone had crappy backgrounds of neglect and abuse and fucking murder just to keep himself safe from the pity and interest both. 

“Some people can’t find their way back from what they’ve seen,” Gothmog adds softly, feeling like he’s looking at a row of faces. Some are men he’s watched die, one or two are men he’s killed himself, something he knows will never be truly alright, though he’s learned to live with the guilt, and some are men who might as well have died out there because they were little more than waiting corpses walking around once they shipped back home. He’s been to several funerals for men like Jacques, men who did not take hold of a lifeline that didn’t come from a bottle, and the thought never gets easier. 

 _I should just learn to keep my cockhole shut_ , Maeglin thinks, wanting to hit himself. Asking about his father never leads him to good places, after all, and inevitably makes him feel like shit. Somehow it’s worse than usual, almost, because this is _Gothmog_ saying stuff like this; he doesn’t know any better, but that doesn't make Maeglin’s stomach stop roiling. They’d done well keeping everything under wraps as far as possible, Turgon and his herd of lawyers – to respect his mother’s memory and let Maeglin grow up in peace without the baggage of a psychotic killer dad – but still he had never ever thought his _mother_ would be reduced into two stupid, clinical words like that.

_Some civilian._

Maeglin forces himself to breathe evenly, ignoring the way his hands shake by balling them up into fists he almost wishes he could plant in that face that he sees every time he looks in a mirror. One breath, two, chasing away the spots that had started to dance in the corners of his eyes, trapped in the darkness of lowered eyelids. When the words come out, they are carefully modulated, his voice low and clipped, laced with pain and an edge of anger he can’t hide.

“My father,” he starts, “ _is a war hero_.” Those words, spoken so often when he was young that they’ve lost meaning, taste like purest poison. “I’ve been told he was a good soldier more times than I can count. I was… I was told to be proud of him. I was, I fucking _was_ ,”  Maeglin swallows hard, his stern mouth whitened with anger, his shoulders shaking. “I tried so hard to be, even if he belted me on a whim when there was just the right amount of alcohol and adrenaline in his cursed blood and he felt like I was everything I shouldn’t be and nothing like he wanted me to be.”

The tea and biscuits might be coming back up, judging by the way he feels his insides twist and burn.

Gothmog is reeling; he had guessed some, but the black bile dripping from Maeglin’s sneered words tell him that the alcohol abuse might actually be the least of the problems Eöl brought to his family. Holding Maeglin still, careful not to trap him, he says nothing, offering calm reception as he waits for the torrent of words to stop, the well to run dry, feeling his heart race beneath Maeglin’s cheek, his skin dampened with tears.

“No one knew. No one _cared_ ,” Maeglin continues. “We were all fucked up because of him.” Opening his eyes, he sees the lights on the screen flash distorted through the angry tears clinging to his eyelashes. “Him getting locked up for murder is the only good thing that ever came out of it.” It feels like all the warmth has been sucked out of him. “He didn’t kill _some civilian_.”

The breath he takes feels like inhaling frozen needles.

_“He murdered my mother.”_

Shock fills him, followed swiftly by agonising guilt for the way Maeglin’s voice breaks, making Gothmog feel beyond callous for the way he spoke of.. his mother. _Fuck_. 

“I… didn’t know…” Gothmog whispers, pressing the words into Maeglin’s dark hair and wishing he could see his face, “I’m so sorry, love.” 

Some twisted part of Maeglin wants to push Gothmog away – how dare he try and undo Maeglin with sweetness when he feels nothing but grief and anger, changed very little during the years? It’s still there, poison in an open wound, the phantom pain in his heart where a mother-sized tear keeps slowly bleeding.

 _Briseadh agus brú ar do chnámha!_ The curse doesn't leave Gothmog’s lips, hurled at the spectre of a man he hasn’t thought of in years. Instead, he presses a kiss into Maeglin’s hair, trying to offer a semblance of comfort he knows will never be _enough_. “What was her name?”

There is no disgust in Gothmog’s eyes when Maeglin turns to look at him, just concern and sorrow deep like a well, and the breath from those lips puffs shaky against his hair. And the question was genuine – no one gives Maeglin reason to even whisper her name anymore, making her less than a ghost, simply another picture on Turgon’s wall.

He finds he wants to say it, just to make it live again.

“Írissë.”

It tastes like childhood, rolling off his tongue perfect after all this time even if his clumsy mouth struggled with the intricacies of his mother’s language, butchering it here and there and making her laugh with twinkling eyes, the shared secret like a big bag of gold.

“Írissë… a good name, as my gran would say.” Tightening his arm around Maeglin, Gothmog reaches up with his free hand, tilting Maeglin’s head up with a light press of fingers. “I am sorry she was taken from you, Maeglin, and doubly so in such a way.” His heart breaks at the look in those dark eyes, the light sheen of tears Maeglin can’t quite blink away.

“I – I just wish people wouldn’t talk about her like some fucking… _casualty_.” Maeglin’s breath hitches in his throat. 

_Nameless, unremarkable, how many spouses deranged veterans kill yearly – a statistic._

He takes the remote and pauses the movie, suddenly angry at the perfect Beren on the screen.

Pressing his lips against Maeglin’s forehead, Gothmog hugs him gently, wiping a thumb beneath one eye and taking a tear with it. “Do you want to talk about it?” _Love_ , the endearment that’s definitely unwarranted almost slips out again, and Gothmog is surprised and saddened by the rightness of it, wishing that this was their 20th date, not their 2nd – perhaps Maeglin would trust him enough by then that it wouldn’t feel wrong to call him pet names for comfort, that it wouldn’t feel like he’s moving too soon _again_ when he holds him close and tries to banish the demons between them. 

Maeglin never really even wanted Gothmog to know – murder is too dark for this place of wealth and peace – but he can’t take back the words now, and part of him wants to grab hold of the comfort he’s long-since learned to refuse and never let go. He sighs, softer now, a little of the tension seeping out of his shoulders, and takes Gothmog’s hand from his face, drawing it around himself and placing it where one of his deeper scars run, a laceration drawn in faded pink over white skin on his lower back.

“I’m not sure,” Maeglin whispers, leaning in a little closer and dragging his fingers over the hairy expanse of Gothmog’s cheek, following his fingers with his eyes until he can lightly brush at the sinfully soft lower lip. “But... now you know?”

Gothmog nods, one hand continuing to stroke Maeglin’s upper arm as the other stays where he put it. “Thank you for telling me,” he replies, honoured by the implied trust. “I’m willing to listen if you need it, Maeglin,” he adds, “but it’s okay if you just want to turn the film back on, too.” 

The small smile Maeglin manages wavers and flickers to nothing, replaced by a serious look. “I don’t know – you make a lot of hard things easy and a lot of easy things difficult. I’ve… I’ve never had that before. Fuck, I’m confused.”

_I’m finding myself doing a shitload of things I don’t understand lately._

_And I can’t help hoping that you won’t just run…_

Maeglin bites his lip, a little anxious and concerned. “Is it – is it just me?”

“No…” Gothmog whispers, drawing him down for a soft kiss, “it’s not just you. And I’m confused too. You make me feel…” _Things I shouldn’t be feeling. Yet._ He sighs, wondering at his own lack of eloquence. Kissing Maeglin one more time turns into another and another and perhaps this is really that easy… and perhaps not. “Do you want to continue this?” he wonders, still worried Maeglin will say no, will tell him it’s too much, _too soon_. 

_I don’t want to lose you already._

The bundle of nerves in the pit of Maeglin’s belly transforms into something else, a warm bloom spreading from his chest and reaching out towards the gentle fingertips on his skin. He goes with it, flows with it, a lonely tear tracking down his cheek all forgotten – soon he opens his mouth to let Gothmog in and to trace the shape of his mouth with his tongue in turn while the thrum of his pulse taps away at his groin.

He briefly wonders what his mother would think about this… would she like Gothmog? Would she approve?

Then Gothmog pulls away, and Maeglin blinks at him owlishly, the question registering a little slower than he’d like.

_Continue this? Void, if you stop I will smack you._

“Yeah – I mean, if you want to.” Maeglin smiles, sheepish, aware that he’s poking Gothmog with his insistent erection, and that he should put the tray away or they’ll end up knocking it over. “I feel good with you,” he whispers, thinking about the way their bodies seem to fit together and how everything balances out when they do _this_.

“ _Good_ ,” Gothmog purrs, pulling him in for a slow deep kiss that seems to heat him from head to toes. Picking the tray off Maeglin, he sets it on the floor, snagging the last biscuit in the process. Breaking the small cookie in two, he offers one half to Maeglin, popping the other into his own mouth with a grin. 

The kiss tastes like sugary crumbs, but it’s worth it for the way Maeglin softens beneath him, legs coming up to cradle his hips when he starts rocking slowly, pressing him into the mattress. “I like kissing you,” he says softly, proving the point in the next moment, and the next, and the _next_. Smiling against Maeglin’s lips, Gothmog slows down, moving in lines of kisses across Maeglin’s face and down his neck, looking for the spots that make him sigh. This time, filled with quiet joy, he’s determined to go slow, to savour every part of his new lover.

Maeglin’s hands come up almost automatically, fingers curling in Gothmog’s hair, his head turning to chase the sweet mouth until he has no hopes of reaching it anymore. Want blossoms at every touch of lips against his neck, tendons tightening with small shivers that shake him to the core, growing more powerful the deeper they reach.

 _This is a good spot_ , Gothmog thinks, satisfied by the keening mewl Maeglin makes when he sucks at his neck, licking sweat-salt skin flushed with desire. Moving the pads of his fingers slowly across Maeglin’s body, he feels a few thin lines and does his best to keep his fiery temper from flaring at the thought that they were put there by violence, teasing tiny shapes across the pale skin instead. 

Maeglin feels like he’s got hot steel between his legs, desperately wanting to be forged into a more familiar shape – and while this is all sorts of amazing, it’s not taking him there. Gothmog’s caresses are pushing involuntary reactions out of him, sighs and tiny moans which sound nothing like he should, rebounding off a foreign board deep within, in forms of feelings too unfamiliar and tender.

When Maeglin thinks he can take it no more, he pulls at the radiant flames cradling Gothmog’s head, fingers white against the golden-and-red, wanting that mouth to shut him up, lock his stupid keens back inside him.

“Gothmog…” he whispers, a hint of urgency breaking his voice, heels digging into the backs of his strong thighs and hips rising to press tighter against Gothmog’s. “…F-fuck.”

“I like these little noises,” Gothmog purrs, nipping at Maeglin’s ear once before obeying the pull on his hair to return to his mouth, dragging his lips slowly across Maeglin’s. “Think I can get some more?” 

 _Of course you like my noises_ , Maeglin thinks, swallowing the hot saliva pooling beneath his tongue, well aware how his legs are shaking when he locks them about Gothmog’s hips. _You’re way too fucking good at getting me to make them._

“You need more, sweetling?” Running one hand down Maeglin’s side, Gothmog cups that plump buttock, drawing his fingertips slowly over the small crease before hitching his leg a little higher. 

Gothmog’s own groin wants nothing more than to take the mewling invitation of the man beneath him, but a stronger part of him wants to make Maeglin melt into a puddle of desire first, showing him that it doesn’t always have to be hurried couplings between them.

Maeglin closes his eyes, huffing a hot shivery breath against Gothmog’s mouth, and then kisses him hard, kneading the back of his neck and the furred cheeks, sucking each lip between his in turn and then delving deep, drinking him up for a full taste. His cock is pressed against his belly by Gothmog’s bulk, a hint of wetness smearing between them, the pressure sweet and torturous at the same time.

“Yeah,” he breathes finally, letting his hot gaze travel over the handsome features, thumbs gliding over the smooth, freckled skin above the line of ginger beard. “Fuck me. _Please_.”

_Fuck these thoughts out of my head._

It's what he wants, and Gothmog's fingers are playing across soft loosened skin before he decides to, reminded of how open Maeglin was before, and revelling in how responsive he is _now._ Scrambling with his free hand for the lube they left on the nightstand earlier, Gothmog thumbs open the bottle, moving back to sit on his heels. 

“I'm going to make you feel even better,” he promises, squeezing a dollop of lube onto his fingers. Bending down for more kisses, he runs his slick fingers across Maeglin’s soft skin. Smiling into the kiss, Gothmog presses the pad of his thumb against Maeglin's hole, watching his face as it pops inside, fucking him slowly. 

Once again, Maeglin remembers how good it is to have those eyes on him, how they look at him as if _they_ were having sex with him. It makes his body tingle, his cock jump at the tease of that single finger barely stretching him, brushing his lenient walls in this torturously slow pace that does little more than drive him just a bit insane…

Giving Maeglin's neglected cock a few slick strokes, Gothmog spreads his hole with two fingers, continuing to fuck him with his thumb. “Look how well you take me,” he says, surprised by how dark his voice has gone, pressing the pad of his thumb against Maeglin’s walls to open him up a little more.

The light of the screen frames Gothmog in a play of blueish lights, catching the golden reds of his hair and washing them rather silver like a weird halo. Maeglin reaches towards it, finds himself sitting up, his muscles working to keep him upright when his fingers brush the broad, strong shoulders, missing the immense warmth of Gothmog’s skin as soon as it’s withdrawn.

“I want to ride you,” he whispers, gives in just enough to support himself against his arms, thighs quivering the way they are spread, open and helpless. “I want to – I want to ride you and make _you_ feel good.”

Because fuck – that’s what Maeglin wants, so stupidly much, to lose himself into the effort and strain and heartbeat, to look into those eyes and see them fucking _well_ for him in pleasure, and yet… and yet, this is good too, and he also kind of wants to fall back against the cushions, to flow through the slow satisfaction of having that godly attention, to bask in the novelty of it. The indecision makes him bite his lip, to close his eyes only to open them again in a dark, not-quite focused look. 

Gothmog would be lying if he claimed he didn’t have to take a few deep breaths in response to Maeglin’s plaintive whisper. Stretching him just a bit further – he’s loose, still, but Gothmog likes to be thorough – he grins at the unfocused look in Maeglin’s dark eyes, something like satisfaction rushing through his blood, moving in time with his heart. Bending, he presses his lips to Maeglin’s jutting hipbone, speeding up the motion of his hand slightly. 

“Well, then, cowboy,” he smirks, licking a stripe of skin until he can flick his tongue into Maeglin’s navel, “I do think I owe you a ride.” 

Looking up, he’s pleased by the dazed expression on Maeglin’s face, pulling his fingers from his soft hole with a satisfying squelch of lube and reaches for the bottle once more. 

Squeezing himself in a slick fist, his head resting calmly on Maeglin’s thigh, he can’t help stealing a small taste of him before sitting back up on his heels, knowing exactly how good he looks stroking himself like this, as though he’s got all the time in the world before he will pounce. 

Maeglin’s skin warms up tingling where Gothmog’s mouth has been, the sudden licks of pleasure from it sharply contrasting the slowly burning throb of his willing arse, and he has to follow a sigh with a whimper while his scrambled mind is trying to decide how to feel about what’s happening in his body. It’s frightening, really, how Maeglin’s name has never sounded as nice as it does from Gothmog’s soft, well-kissed lips. He tries not to think about it, shaking himself out of his trance when Gothmog’s fingers leave him, the sight of his strong body beckoning Maeglin to rise to his elbows to see better.

He blows hair off his face, not quite succeeding, the dampened locks clinging to his cheeks, and lets his gaze carve a blazing path from the impressive, gorgeous cock held in an equally gorgeous hand, to the sculpted abs and chiselled chest – to the face that somehow manages to be endlessly kind and perpetually wicked at the same time, and neither extreme takes anything away from its beauty.

Gothmog smiles, slow as molasses, and reaches out to trace Maeglin’s hole with the index finger of his free hand.

“So, Maeglin,” he teases, “what’ll it be?”

The mattress dips under Maeglin and tilts him against Gothmog’s hot chest as he pushes up to balance on his slightly spread knees. He curls his fingers into the endearing mess of sunset hues, opening his mouth in a kiss that manages to take his own breath away. It doesn’t matter that lube smears between them, or that Maeglin’s prick draws a whiplash mark of precum over Gothmog’s thigh, or that he seems – and feels – a bit too hungry for his own comfort, itching all over with something he can’t scratch.

 _Gods._ Maeglin doesn’t know if it annoys him more than it turns him on that Gothmog’s _always_ asking him, offering his pleasure to him, giving it into Maeglin’s hands. He never knew how much he’s needed it, but something in him still keeps telling him he doesn’t know what to do with it, that he’ll somehow fuck this up by pretending to be something he’s not. Maeglin would never admit it – he thinks it’ll hardly show if he keeps moving, puts ardour where his mind is, and just lets go.

Continuing to pump himself slowly, Gothmog catches Maeglin’s face in his free hand, bringing him in for more of those deep soul-stealing kisses, Maeglin’s cock kissing his knuckles at the end of each stroke. “I adore your mouth, sweetheart,” he murmurs, swallowing any possible reply as he licks into Maeglin’s mouth, tasting him with something like desperation.

Rubbing his hips against Gothmog’s, Maeglin pulls back for a brief, searing look, hot and hard, and drapes himself over Gothmog’s body to try and push him down, to land him on the sinfully soft pillows so Maeglin can mount his stupidly beautiful, proud cock.

It’s slightly amusing to let Maeglin push him around, but it’s somehow also incredibly hot to watch him scramble for some semblance of control when Gothmog simply falls back onto the mattress, tugging him down for another deep kiss. Maeglin’s kisses might be addictive, and if they’re not, then the way he moans when Gothmog grips his buttock certainly _is_. Leaving a slick handprint on Maeglin’s skin, Gothmog lifts him slightly, letting him sit on his hips, feeling the sweet agony of anticipation at having his cock nestled between those firm buttocks. 

“This what you need, hmm, darling?” he purrs, moving one hand to grip himself when Maeglin rises up on his knees, looking too sexy for words as he opens himself slightly to ease the way.

_So fucking hot._

It’s fire in his blood, this _desire_ , a fire that can only be quenched with pleasure. 

Part of him knows it will never truly be _sated_ but the thought is lost as swiftly as it appears, lost to the way Maeglin groans when he sinks down that first glorious inch.

Gothmog throws his head back with a strained moan, wondering how he could ever have thought that _slow_ was the way to go.

Maeglin shivers at the first dull sensation of pressure, then keens at the jolt of pleasure at being breached, letting his weight bring him down to sit on his solid, hot seat. Pinpricks run up his spine, pull tight his jaw until his mouth opens with another sound, tongue heavy in his mouth.

 _Gods_ , he just wants to rock himself onto _it_ , let himself have it, but as soon as he opens his eyes and sees Gothmog’s face, he’s reminded of his promise.

Fuck, as much as Maeglin loves being pinned by those strong arms, under that shapely bulk, this… this is great too. Biting his lip plush, he runs a hand down the hard bone of Gothmog’s chest, rakes the soft hair with his nails. The shadow he throws over Gothmog doesn’t steal away his glow, hues washed near greyscale in the dimness though his eyes are blazing as ever.

“You know what I need,” he murmurs, hoping to sound as hot and sweet as he feels while slowly lifting himself up, feeling Gothmog’s hardness massage him from the inside in a blunt caress. He flicks his thumb over a perfect pink nipple, finding the metal attached to it almost hot to touch. Maybe he’s imagining it. “You’ve got it, Firebrand.” 

Watching the handsome face, Maeglin _squeezes_ , a thin rivulet running down the crown of his prick, his eyes fluttering shut at the lewd sound from his throat.

“I do, eh,” he chuckles, sucking in a breath when Maeglin lifts almost all the way off him only to give him the most exquisite agony with the way he drops down in one smooth slide. Gothmog curses, hands landing on Maeglin’s hips; he’s already found a favourite hold, it seems, which probably ought be more frightening – but Maeglin is _his_ , now, so Gothmog pushes the thought away, trying not to allow the searing heat of his new lover to spin his mind out of control entirely. 

Looking up at him, tendrils of black hair sticking to pale skin, nearly painful pleasure painted across features too angular and harsh to be truly handsome and yet Maeglin has an otherworldly beauty, those dark eyes drawing Gothmog’s like magnets.

His stomach muscles burn, a little, but it’s worth it for the surprise on Maeglin’s face when he surges up, stealing a kiss that scrambles his rhythm, just a little, before falling back down on the bed. Licking his lips, Gothmog grins, one thumb drawing circles around Maeglin’s jutting hip bone, pressing lightly against the spot there that makes him hiss with pleasure. 

“I like it if you play with them,” he offers, moving one hand from Maeglin’s arse – he can’t help but give the pert cheek a squeeze first – to tease his own nipple, the small barbells making tiny bursts of pleasure zip through his system. His nipples were never that sensitive… until he stuck the two metal rods through them, mostly because he’d lost a bet with Glorfindel and it was a piercing or cleaning the barracks toilets for three weeks. 

Closing his eyes for a moment when Maeglin finds _just the way_ to roll his hips, he hisses out a long breath: “You _minx_.” The grin on Maeglin’s face when he opens them again is akin to the proverbial cat, a droplet of sweat running down his hairline, another painting a trail down the lean chest. Reaching up, he tweaks one of Maeglin’s nipples, remembering how sensitive the small nubs were in the shower, trailing touches almost lazily down to where his cock juts out proudly from its small nest of curly black pubes. It’s a slender thing, much like its owner, curving upwards; Gothmog wants to lick it, but settles for swiping his thumb across the wet head, sucking a drop of Maeglin’s pleasure into his mouth with a pleased sound. 

Maeglin’s rhythm falters for a moment, staring.

He did not expect to see that thick thumb dive between those plush pink lips, but when it does he might just die a little, as if feeling it himself, wondering how Gothmog finds his taste – the sound the man makes a new wave of warmth clutch his loins, bring a new glistening drop to the head of his flushed cock.

Gothmog grins. He might not have Maeglin’s superb oral skills – and he’d be lying if he claimed he wasn’t jealous of whomever he used for practice to learn those – but he thinks he knows what’s running through Maeglin’s head in this moment and he’s more than willing to kneel before him, treating that pretty cock with the care it deserves and drinking down all Maeglin’s willing to give him in the process. 

He’s not entirely surprised by the suddenly vice-like grip of Maeglin’s arse that follows; bucking his hips in response to the flood of pleasure, he squeezes Maeglin’s hip until the surge passes.

Maeglin sighs, lets his palms melt against the round pecs for a moment, pinching the piercings gently between two fingers.

“You’re killing me,” Maeglin murmurs, knowing exactly how his cheeks have reddened, eyes half-hooded and near humourless – oh he might just be serious about that, considering the way his heart pounds inside his chest. He throws his head back, wild curls detaching from his damped cheekbones, and falls into movement, his thighs working to bring him up and then down, ruining himself with worshipping the beauty of the one lying beneath him.

“Fuck.” The hand on Maeglin’s hip feels molten, pouring heat into him, that thumb pressing tiny bolts of lightning into his body, zipping through his nervous system in search of a single-minded goal.

Gods, only if he wasn’t this banal – _mundane_ – if he could extend beyond his own trivial frame and meet Gothmog even halfway, be truly worthy of him… Maeglin doesn’t know how to express himself, how to show his gratitude for this borrowed moment now that he’s been granted these wings…

“ _Urunya_ ,” he whispers, licking a drop of sweat into his mouth, tasting salt and an echo of Gothmog’s kiss, “you’re so beautiful –” 

_Like a fucking god._

A part of him is already cocooned up and ready to bloom, to blow his load all over that strong, divine chest – for a moment certain it would sizzle – with a heart that thrums so much steadier and deeper than his own fluttery excuse of one…

“I want to draw you like this, I want to – _oh_ ”

Maeglin’s lips fall open, his eyes falling shut like he can’t help it when Gothmog gives in to the need burning in his blood, thrusting his hips up to meet him on the downstroke, his grip on Maeglin’s thighs tight and strong, helping him move in rhythm.

The red locks strewn across the pillow could be flaming snakes for all Maeglin knows – he leans down, captures the soft lips to find out if he can taste himself there, whining against the sweetness of Gothmog’s mouth in terrible hunger, wanting more, _more…_

Maeglin is entirely sober and doesn’t even feel like it, flooded with endorphins and adrenaline and what-ever-the-fuck his system is made of. Maeglin wants to throw himself into it and never resurface. He wants Gothmog to always remember him like this, the way he feels now, like a slave and like a king, like something chained and something explicitly, utterly _free._

“You fuck me so good, baby,” Gothmog whispers, nipping at Maeglin’s ear as he pants into his collarbone, “so pretty; I want you to cum for me now…” He _needs_ it, really, hurtling towards the cliff face himself, every burst of bright coloured pleasure behind his eyes fanning the flames of desire; but Gothmog wants Maeglin to cum like this, wants to watch him splinter apart and break with pleasure, the dogged stubbornness of his father’s kin holding on to the last shreds of his self-control even tighter than he’s holding onto Maeglin’s fine arse. 

Any thoughts of going _slowly_ have fled entirely, lost in the sweet panting heat of Maeglin’s kisses and the searing vice of his arse clenching around his cock tight enough to attempt to delay the inevitable. Sudden desperation seizes him, one hand worming its way between them, intent on capturing its prize, fist wrapping around Maeglin’s weeping prick reflected in the way his whine changes pitch. Gothmog strokes him quickly, matching the speed of Maeglin’s thighs, his free hand slapping lightly against a tight cheek, fingers pressing into flesh with just the right give. He knows Maeglin’s legs must be burning, and part of him considers flipping them over, burying himself in the tight slick heat of him, but it’s subsumed by the fire in his blood in the next moment, surging ever higher as Maeglin continues to move, the sounds he makes a delicious music that Gothmog wishes will last forever.

 _Do you want to see me_ fall _, Lavalocks?_

The fleeting expression on Gothmog’s face is almost pained, and Maeglin understands that though he currently understands very little else, his mind occupied with the raging fire Gothmog’s lit in his blood. The slap on his buttock smarts only a little, but the way it makes Maeglin tighten around the fleshy prick makes him moan in answer, a drawn-out sound of pleasure that highlights its effect even more than the surprise. He bares his teeth, nips at Gothmog’s mouth, and doubles his efforts, wavering a little when Gothmog’s big hand closes around him and follows his pace, squeezing Maeglin _just right_.

He feels only the heat while time’s counted in the beats of his wild heart, thudding away towards the moment Maeglin can no longer hold on. The fist around his cock is doing a good job of stripping him of the little sanity he’s got left, and in the end he no longer wants to fight it, spurred by all that and those ridiculously blue eyes which drill straight into his tortured soul.

“I’ll cum for you,” he whispers, though his intonation rises with the alarm of his body, balls bunching tight and hot and cock twitching in Gothmog’s grasp. His hips move, the slapping of slickened flesh echoing in the room as he brings himself down again and again, hole tight around the root of Gothmog’s cock. Sweat’s already shining slick between their bodies, the air thickened around them, and Maeglin’s gasping his breaths. “I’ll cum for you, Gothmog…”

The noise he makes is something inhuman, arse clamping around Gothmog so hard and tight Maeglin’s unsure where he ends and Gothmog begins – until now he’s thought it a syrupy thing to say, all metaphysical nonsense like that rubbing him in all the wrong ways, but now he’s not so certain… 

Maeglin’s release tears out of him so violently he almost faints, crying out the duration of it in tune with the hot spurts splattering between them, forehead pressed against Gothmog’s, his fist white against the wrinkled sheet.

Maeglin is left shivering, collapsed into himself, hot and spent, heart thudding away so loud he fears for a second it might give in.

Gothmog’s fingers press into Maeglin’s skin, palms resting on bony hips as Gothmog continues to move him, Maeglin’s legs no longer working. Looking up into his pleasure-slack face makes him smile, stealing one long kiss as he bucks his hips, once, twice, thrice…

When he comes, it’s a hot pulsing flow of lava released from the depths of his soul, drawn out by the rhythmic clench of Maeglin’s arse. Panting into his mouth, Gothmog pushes into him one last time, holding himself there when the pleasure crests.

Maeglin is slumped on Gothmog’s chest, warm and soft, his arse still sending small pulses of nearly-painful pleasure through his body when he begins noticing things once more. Pressing a light kiss against Maeglin’s lips, Gothmog relaxes his grip on his arse, running slow soothing strokes up and down his back.

 

Maeglin feels good.

He takes a moment to wonder at it while his breathing slows down, hitching only at a ticklish spot Gothmog manages to pass over with his roaming hands. It makes his well-worn arse constrict around the length still buried in it, a hint of discomfort breaking through his reverie, and yet he doesn’t want to move away from it.

It’s too good.

The weird sense of finality which has been haunting him feels mostly gone, and though it’s hard to trust on this new feeling yet, Maeglin does his best not to let the shadow pass over his eyes as he pushes up a little, arching his back and making a tiny wordless murmur as his spent cock presses tighter between them.

“Thank you,” he whispers, running his tongue over freckled skin in a fleeting cat-lick. “And you’re welcome, too.”

Gothmog can’t help it: he laughs. 

Then he tightens his arms to prevent Maeglin pulling away with an affronted noise. 

“You’re sweet,” he murmurs, lifting his head to kiss Maeglin’s long nose. “I like you.” He’s still half-hard inside Maeglin, but his energy is almost spent, slipping out of that warm tightness with only a little regret, soothing Maeglin as if he were Patches reclining on his chest, stroking ruffled fur until the younger man is once more akin to a drowsily purring cat on top of him. “But you can’t fall asleep yet.” Trading small sipping kisses, he lets his fingers wander, feeling the glow of the past few hours suffuse his soul. Maeglin’s hole, fluttering shyly against his fingertips in passing seems fine, if a little puffy; his cock gives a valiant attempt at twitching which makes Gothmog smile though he doesn’t remark on it, wanting to enjoy this languid closeness, the way those dark eyes have softened, almost like velvet now. 

Everything’s so sweet now. So fucking _gentle_. And somehow, he doesn’t even mind – not now, not tonight. Maeglin _wants_ this part of the package. He _wants_ to look into those blue eyes which aren’t icy at all and see that Gothmog isn’t repulsed by his past. It’s too fucking rare to find that a bit of honesty pays off, and Maeglin prays to whatever god might listen that it won’t bite him in the arse anytime soon.

He huffs, smiles, showing a hint of teeth, but the kiss he lays in the corner of Gothmog’s mouth isn’t toothy at all, but a slow luxurious thing, soft and wet and lazy, and he nuzzles past the ginger beard to mouth at the warm neck, intent on leaving another small mark as a kind of a _Maeglin was here._

“Come on,” Gothmog murmurs, blinking his eyes open, “I don’t want to wake up this sticky in the morning… and neither do you.” Running his palm over Maeglin’s buttock, he squeezes softly, enjoying the way his fingers sink into the soft give of flesh. 

“What’s wrong with sticky?” Maeglin mumbles, shifting onto his back and lifting a knee up to give his well-used arse some air. His cheeks are still flushed, lips almost crimson from kisses, a drop of sweat cooling in the hollow of his neck – he glances at Gothmog whose hair looks beyond wild and whose eyes glow with satisfaction, and his barely calmed down heart flutters its wings like a caged dove. “It’s like garlic; it’s okay if both are having it.”

“Never heard that one,” Gothmog laughs, groaning a little as he sits, stretching his arms overhead. Getting to his feet, he turns to look at Maeglin, feeling drips of cum running down his chest. “And I want to wash you… put my hands on you and make you all squeaky clean…” Holding out his hand to Maeglin, he smiles. “Join me?” 

No matter how lovely the bed is, sticky skin or not – there’s no way Maeglin could refuse an offer like that. His face melts into a smile that he can feel all the way deep inside when he lets Gothmog pull him up, digging his fingers into the tangled mane and rising to his toes to kiss him, slow and grateful – and for a moment there are no ghosts in the room with them.


	6. What Goes Around Comes Around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aka ' _...ALIENS_

Maeglin dreams of a summer day. He’s lying in grass, with sun on his face, breeze cradling his cheek while waves hit the shore somewhere not far away. Content and loose-limbed, he rolls over to face the wind instead, and –

– wakes up.

Sunlight is peeking into the room through the gap in the curtains, snaking over the rumpled sheets and the golden-red head on the pillow next to his. Gothmog’s breath is Maeglin’s wind – soft, warm, a little heavy with slumber, but still sweet, huffing through slightly parted lips in light caresses. His hair looks fucking wild. Maeglin wonders if his is worse.

Probably.

He is used to different post-sex awakenings. He’s used to disappointment, anger – _anxiety_. 

He shifts a little, arranging his legs under the duvet and sticking one arm beneath the plush pillow, looking at the sleeping man. Gothmog’s face, made younger by rest, is caught between boyish and oddly statuesque with its perfect cheekbones and noble nose. Maeglin makes note of the dusting of freckles, his eyes catching the twins out of their numerous company – the marks of kisses still lingering, the purple-red bruise beneath the line of the slightly pillow-pressed beard.

What’s merging with the images of yesterday isn’t anything like he might have expected. It has no name. It’s a ghost gaining flesh between dream and reality, slipping beneath Maeglin’s skin, inhabiting long-abandoned places, dusting shelves and rearranging dented furniture to its liking.

Gothmog smiles when he opens his eyes. Maeglin’s got _ringlets_ – short but definitely actual fucking _ringlets_ – in his curls and the sight is beyond adorable. He’s always had a thing for curls; Arien’s hair was what the Doctor called space hair, and burying his face or fingers in the mass of it always made him smile. Silently, he wonders if he ought to report this progress to his therapist – desiring someone ticking that box hasn’t happened in so long he had quietly worried that their breakup ruined some of his kinks for good. Looking at Maeglin, his face turned away enough that he won’t see, Gothmog smiles, wanting to reach out and tug on one of those curls. 

Maeglin makes an effort not to look for a clock. He knows it’s late.

A nerve is struck; both feared and anticipated. He’s like Cinderella’s stupid cousin who stayed past midnight and has become a poor mess of an orphan again. To look at the time would be to accept that, and Maeglin doesn’t want to.

Instead, he traces the intricate ink on Gothmog’s chest with a finger, slowly, devoted to the artist’s work. A tree branch, the sickle moon, the black birds intent on escaping beyond the shape of his broad shoulder.

The light touches along the stark black ink decorating his chest make Gothmog’s smile widen. It’s a memory rendered in ink years ago, an old grief, but the pain of the loss has faded, no longer hurtful in the soft light of the morning.

“That tickles,” he whispers, flexing one of his pecs beneath Maeglin’s fingers, smiling at him when he raises his head with slight alarm at the words. “Good morning,” he adds belatedly, wondering if he should kiss Maeglin or if he’s going to insist on toothbrushes before any such greetings.

Glancing towards the windows tells him it’s still morning; about half past seven. It’s later than he usually sleeps on weekdays, but the vigorous exercise he indulged in last night – the memories turn his smile into a full-blown smirk – probably means he can skip going to the gym this morning.  He’s got a meeting at 10, but part of him wants to spend a morning in bed with Maeglin, waking up slowly, and the voice telling him to cancel feels almost as insistent as his morning erection. His cock is harder than it has any right to be, he thinks, with how much he came last night. 

Shaking off that thought, Gothmog gives in to temptation and reaches out to tug at one of the dark curls, drawing it out taut and watching it spring back when he lets go.

“Sleep well?”

Maeglin smiles a little. It’s weird that he missed that voice. Or not weird at all – it’s such a nice voice, and even more so when it’s all sleep-husky like this. The tug on his hair makes him blush lightly; he’s not over how much Gothmog seems to be amused and fascinated by the unruly abomination Maeglin’s forced to live with.

“Yes,” he says, truthfully. “Pretty good. It’s warmer here than in the rest of your home.” And still, if it weren’t for one Gothmog-shaped heater, Maeglin knows he’d be cold. His foot has been hanging out from under the duvet for a moment, and he demonstrates by drawing it up and running his cool toes over Gothmog’s calf.

Gothmog catches Maeglin’s foot with a rumbled laugh. “Cheeky wee thing,” he accuses fondly, wrapping his big fist around the chilled limb and rubbing his thumb slowly along the sole. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a pretty hot man,” he adds, waggling his brows, the grin on his face that of a loon, as Da would say – though he’d shake his head, huff a sound of approval and clap him on the shoulder for the reason, too.

Maeglin tenses, suppresses a squeak, expecting to get tickled in revenge but melting instantly at the slow, firm touch, his toes curling with pleasure. No one’s treated him like this in a long time – spontaneously, willingly. It’s dangerous. He loves it. Fears it.

“I’ve noticed,” he manages, his lips forming a smile. “Keep that up and you might have to repeat with the other one.”

Gothmog’s hair sticks out like rays of sun. Maeglin reaches for it, smooths it down. It barely obeys his hand, the fucker. He thinks it’s better for it.

_“Pretty hot.”_

It seems impossible not to kiss Maeglin when he looks like that, smiling and drowsily happy, and so Gothmog moves, stealing a little one just because. Of course, one would never be enough, and Maeglin’s soft sighs only spur on the desire for more. Gothmog smiles against his mouth, doing his best to keep the kiss slow and soft like the light coming through the windows. 

Maeglin’s never been kissed _good morning_ like that. Damnably gently, carefully, attentively, like his mouth was the best thing ever. It’s so good, demanding all his focus and shooting stray thoughts right out of his silly head, blood insisting and pulsing in his loins.

_One more, just one more._

_One more._

_Fuck…_

Maeglin pretends that he can’t hear the sound digging through his consciousness, fingers finding purchase in the soft hairs at the back of Gothmog’s neck, drawing loops and lightly kneading like a cat would knead his bed. His pulse thuds away, but more and more there’s a hint of anger to it, rapidly speeding like a race car on the homestretch – he stubbornly pushes it down until Gothmog pulls away, a puzzled look on his face, leaving Maeglin’s lips parted and glistening.

“Wait…” Frowning, Gothmog pulls back, something making a sound in the kitchen, “you hear that?” he wonders, looking at Maeglin and admiring the well-kissed look of him. The noise comes again. 

“It’s my alarm…” Maeglin admits, turning his head, muffling an unhappy groan with the pillow and closing his eyes to calm himself. ”I forgot I have a lecture today.”

With no small amount of dismay, Maeglin pulls himself out of the bed.

Gothmog feels almost smacked in the face by reality as he stares after Maeglin, his body clamouring for a different use than the empty bed will provide.

For a moment, he’s frozen.

Then the despair in Maeglin’s voice registers, crystallising into action before he’s decided what he’s going to do, throwing off the duvet and grabbing for he jeans he’d shucked off last night.

Rushing through the apartment in a dishevelled state of nudity, Maeglin almost trips over Patches.

“Shit, kitty, you’ve got no sense of self-preservation.” He shakes his head at the cat – who’s clearly looking at him with narrowed eyes of annoyance, having been exposed to the horrible buzzing and ringing for a while now and then almost stomped on.

Maeglin’s jacket is where he’d dropped it yesterday, forgotten on the floor just barely out of sight behind the big pair of motorcycle boots. That’s where the ringing comes from – squatting, Maeglin digs through his pockets, noticing the shake of his hands. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. It’s_ just _your phone, stupid._

He ends up lifting the jacket and shaking it until the phone drops from somewhere he’d probably checked already, landing in Gothmog’s boot. Sighing, Maeglin fishes it out of there, and manages to successfully swipe right on his third try.

Silence.

The bad thing is he knows exactly how late it is now. He needs to dash, and he probably still won’t get to class on time if he wants to pick up his shit from home. Wanting a moment to calm down by himself, he checks his messages. One from Corben, one from Hoqob, an old friend from the sports team. One from the restaurant he sometimes substitutes in – that’s a good one, he needs the money, and swiftly types an “ok” in response at the suggested times. A couple of shifts means he can finally fill his fridge.

And just like that, Maeglin’s life reminds him of itself. It had merely dragged in a deep breath, but now he feels the pull of it thrice as much. He wishes he could just _quit_ that, but… there’s no way around it, really. That’s who he is. This, this here… _this_ is something else.

He frowns, depositing the phone in the pocket of his jacket, absentmindedly hanging it back on the rack, wondering if he’s got the nerve to ask Gothmog for cab money under some plausible pretext. His clothes are in the bedroom, anyway, so he turns around to return for them, too conscious about seconds passing to be comfortable in his bare skin anymore.

“You need a ride?” Gothmog asks, already pulling on a pair of jeans despite the half-hard state of his cock and the insistence from his bladder. He curses himself, not even asking if Maeglin had time for the half-formed plans swirling in his mind until the sound of the phone broke through his kissing-induced reverie.

_Did I really expect anything else?_ Maeglin watches, almost helplessly, as Gothmog goes through his morning routine, efficient and fully awake, while he’s still naked with his hair imitating Beetlejuice and no fucking idea how to go about anything. _You’re stupidly gorgeous_ , he thinks, mentally shaking himself and instantly feeling lost and weird. _Clothes. Right_.

Walking into the kitchen, Gothmog finds the dry food Patches eats for breakfast and pours a scoop into her bowl, refilling the water and opening his fridge with a small frown. None of the things he bought yesterday would make for good breakfast, really – at least not on the go, he’d planned to scramble some eggs – and isn’t that just turning into a typical frigging thing in relation to Maeglin being present? Wanting to laugh at himself, Gothmog picks up a bread knife.

“I’ll make you a sandwich if you like – for lunch,” he offers, “and we can grab a croissant and a coffee for breakfast: there’s a nice little bakery shop not too far off… you’re at Mindon, aye?”

“Ye– wait,” Maeglin begins, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs. “Wait – just wait a bit.” He delves back into the bedroom, gathering his clothes and fumbling them on. A little rank, but not as bad as he expected; they’ll do. Fishing an orphaned hair tie from one of his grimacing pockets, Maeglin re-emerges, tying back his hair in a swift emergency move.

“Listen,” he says, walking through the living room, “I feel really crap about you having to disturb your morning to take me to places.” 

“Take that off,” Gothmog says, wrinkling his nose a bit at Maeglin’s crumpled tank top. Not only is it wrinkled, but it’s sporting several stains of dubious origin and he doesn’t need to smell it to know that’s not roses.

Uneasily, Maeglin looks at Gothmog, well-aware that he can’t quite hide his anxiety about his next words, “If you could lend me some cash for a cab – that’d be great, really – l will pay back next time.” 

_Why do I care?_ Gothmog wonders, but he already knows why. No son of Minette Balrogath – née Cuvier – would ever leave the house smelling like an old goat, and letting someone else… Most likely not going to fly, either. 

“And go wash,” Gothmog continues, gesturing towards the bathroom with the knife. “You can wear one of my tees,” he adds, turning back to his cutting board and humming softly to himself.

Maeglin has a horrible feeling he’s once again underestimated Gothmog’s stubbornness. Defeated, he raises his hands in mock surrender and turns around, finding his way back into the bathroom. 

Gothmog is halfway surprised when Maeglin obediently turns around – the guy didn’t even put up a fight, which goes against the grain somehow – but decides not to comment, piling the slices of bread high with slices of mozzarella and grilled chicken slathered in pesto before wrapping it tightly in some brown paper. Humming something catchy to himself, he fixes a quick salad in a small container and adds that, the sandwich, and a bottle of water to one of the brown paper bags Maman always used for his own school lunches. It’s terribly domestic, but it feels good to make sure Maeglin gets fed properly while trying to cram his brain full of knowledge.

On a whim Maeglin drops his dirty shirt into the hamper, wondering if they’ll end up evening out the contents of their wardrobes between their apartments at this rate. The thought amuses him a little, though he’s still too busy to fight his rising stress level to fully appreciate the irony of his home having Gothmog’s stuff in it even though the man has never been himself. He washes, quickly, not paying much attention at what he’s doing, scrubbing his armpits with the wetted corner of a towel and brushing his teeth hastily. 

Giving Patches a small pet – no time for their morning play session today – Gothmog walks through his living room, giving Maeglin a smack on the butt as he moves for his shoes. 

_Rawrrr._

Walking into the bathroom, Gothmog washes himself with military efficiency, pulling a clean shirt over his still-damp skin and putting on a pair of socks on the way back to the kitchen, his keys salvaged from the trousers he wore yesterday. “Here,” he says, handing Maeglin a clean tee. It’s obviously too big, but Gothmog can’t deny a certain sort of satisfaction seeing Maeglin in his clothes. 

Maeglin wipes a stray droplet of water from his lips, a soft _oh_ of surprise escaping them as he sees the tee Gothmog is holding towards him. The glass of water he’d been draining clicks against the counter when he sets it down, reaching for the shirt. Tugging it on hastily, Maeglin’s unable to hide the hint of blush that creeps up his neck at the sight of Gothmog, golden-copper-flame beard still darkened by water and blue eyes sparkling with something that can only be expectation.

_He looks good in all states of dress – or undress._

“Nice,” Maeglin says, though he’s not sure if it’s a compliment for the shirt or something else that deserves much better praises. “Thanks.”

The tee makes Maeglin look like he hasn’t grown into himself yet, but it’s sinfully soft and nice against his skin, so he doesn’t complain, pulling his hoodie over his dishevelled ponytail. 

“You ready to go?” Gothmog asks, picking up the brown bag and a pair of apples. 

_Fuck_. Maeglin doesn’t want to argue. He wants to get going, adrenaline beating away at him. He’d given Gothmog a way out, but if he’s not taking it, shouldn’t Maeglin be able to let go of his guilt? A smarter, more practical man would. “Yeah,” he says, slipping into his jacket, feeling warm at the sight of the brown lunch bag. “Sorry about this. I’ve no idea how I forgot.” _All my notes are at home. Fuck. Fuck my life. “_ I’ve been reading for _days_. One of those incomprehensible-if-you-haven’t-studied Professors. Total hard-ass.”

Gothmog pauses a moment, holding the door open for Maeglin, like his very own knight in shining armour. “It’s fine,” he smiles, biting into his apple with a loud crunch and offering Maeglin the other one. “Eat that on the way.” 

Maeglin accepts the apple, grateful even if his stomach is twisted in knots. Some of it is probably hunger – they’ve been pretty vigorously spending their energy, after all. 

“How late are you?” Gothmog asks in between bites, hitting the button for the elevator as he slings on his blazer; he plans to come back for a proper shower and getting dressed for his meeting when he’s dropped Maeglin off. 

Maeglin checks the time on his mobile as he steps into the elevator, sighing to himself and giving Gothmog a look made out of frustration and regret. “I’ve... oh, 35 minutes.” They’ve been far faster than he’d thought, somehow.

“That should be fine,” Gothmog says, pressing the button for the parking basement. “You _are_ at Mindon, yeah?” When Maeglin nods, he grins happily. “That’s less than 20 minutes, if the traffic’s not too terrible, Maeglin – we’ve time to fetch a croissant from Miss Bella’s for breakfast.” Nodding to himself, he fishes his keys out of his pocket and unlocks the car as the elevator glides to a halt.

 

Miss Bella’s Bakery is a few streets over, but it’s on the way to Mindon, so Gothmog feels no guilt ringing in an order for double croissants and coffee to go, his phone automatically connecting through the car as he guides them into the morning traffic. 

It’s Miss Bella herself – Mrs. Baggins, now, technically, but she’ll never be anything but Miss Bella to her customers, really – who comes out with the bag, accepting his sincere congratulations with a proud smile and a light pat on the apron that’s beginning to get beyond snug around her gravid form. 

Handing the bag of pastries to Maeglin along with the two paper cups on their tray, Gothmog speeds off. 

“Eat,” he says, gesturing at the bag, “you’ve 15 minutes till we’re there.”

_Yes, mum._ Maeglin glances over at Gothmog and raises an eyebrow, fighting the urge to say something and finding it much easier when the rich, welcome scent reaches his nostrils, shutting him up. Void, he’s hungry, and hopes dearly that the purr of the engine drowns out the sound his stomach is making.

There’s probably nothing as soothing as the smell of good coffee and freshly baked pastries, and Maeglin relaxes a little as he places Gothmog’s cup in the cupholder and takes a sip of his, burning his tongue only a little – _that’s what you get for being too hasty._ Making a low _mmh_ -sound of surprise, he balances the cup between his thighs and digs into the bag, folding a soft napkin around his croissant and biting into the fluffy warmth, trying to land the resulting crumbs in his lap instead of the seat.

“Well, fuck.” He licks the scattering of specks from his lips and bites into the croissant more carefully, discreetly looking in Gothmog’s direction to see if he finds any disapproval there.

Maeglin could always offer to vacuum-clean his car later.

_Later._ He thinks on it. It sounds good. Terrifying. Terrifyingly good. His arse stings at a slight bump in the road, causing him to grimace into his breakfast. That’s good pain – as solid as a ghost can get.

Eating a croissant in a moving car is never a gracefully accomplished task, and yet Maeglin manages to look at once adorably messy with crumbs and softly sensual with the way he licks his fingers as Gothmog focuses on the road rather than the small glances he catches in the corner of his eye.

Reaching for his own cup, he takes a sip of coffee, feeling the dark brew flow silkily over his tongue and land in a small pool of warmth in his stomach. He smiles, signalling for the turn, pleased that Mindon’s spires are already visible in the distance. 

“Music?” Maeglin asks, leaning over to fiddle with the radio. He hopes he doesn’t have to pretend to like classical music this time.

The sound system coming to life is half-startling, though he catches Maeglin’s surprise – pleased, it seems? Gothmog hopes so – when the newest Angband album blasts from the speakers. Gothmog grins, turning the volume down just a little; he’d muted the music when he spotted Maeglin last night but after the trying day he’d had, it had felt freeing to blast the melodic metal at high volume, singing along to his heart’s content.

It’s their best one, so far, Gothmog thinks, the maturity and cohesion achieved after years of playing together coming through in new ways with this album, at once more playful and more grown-up than the previous ones.

Maeglin has been on and off worried they don’t have enough in common, but to hear the familiar song through those excellent speakers soothes some of those fears. He hasn’t bought this album yet, though he’s made a point of getting all of them – instead, he’s been listening to a CD Corben burned for him, though he suspects the original files had been pirated from somewhere illegal.

“Now we’re talking,” he remarks, going as far as to wink, sipping his coffee with more success now. “I saw these guys live once,” he starts, pushing out his chest a bit, proud, “five, six years ago? A friend and I, we climbed over a fence during Rock In Tirion and watched most of it from the beer truck roof. It rained, and no one bothered to look up to find us there until Angband was playing their encore. But we only really got busted when Corben slipped and kicked his foot through the awning.”

It had been hilarious, really. Maeglin had almost escaped – unlucky that the TV crew had pulled a cable as thick as Maeglin’s wrist crossing over his escape route, and he’d missed it because of all the trodden mud it’d been covered in.

“Crazy shit.”

Gothmog laughs. “That was you?” he asks, amused. He hadn’t gone himself – he’d been stationed at the Embassy in Japan at the time – but Thuri had nearly died laughing talking about ‘Beer truck boy’. 

Maeglin grins at the question and the amused look on Gothmog’s face. It’s a story that never fails to rouse some sort of reaction – and this time he wishes it had managed to distract _him_ as well. They aren’t far from the campus – Maeglin rolls the napkin into a ball and drops it into the bag, turning his attention to the coffee which has done a good job warming his inner thighs. The sight of the spires refreshes the mild sense of nausea he’s been battling. The lecturer is notorious for locking the door and refusing latecomers, and Maeglin can’t afford to miss this one. He’s got nothing to bribe other students with for notes, and supposedly some of the test questions come directly from what’s being discussed today. He’s in deep shit as it is.

“Mindon Cemeno is just up ahead,” Gothmog says, nodding at the campus entrance ahead, already bustling with students hurrying to and fro – he feels almost wistful at the thought of joining them, remembering the few semesters of classes he took after leaving the army with fond nostalgia – it looks like Maeglin isn’t the only one scrambling to make it in time. “I’ll drop you at the entrance?” Parking at Mindon has never been great; he might be able to cheese himself a spot in the staff parking area, but most people walk or cycle to campus so there’s a limited number of spaces.

Maeglin checks his phone, nodding distractedly. _Nine minutes._ “That’s fine, thanks.” His hand is already on the handle, feet itching to run. 

And yet he lingers when he leaves the car, blinking at the suddenly-bright sunlight. 

Leaving the car idling by the kerb, Gothmog jumps out, fetching the bag of lunch he left on the backseat. Walking over to Maeglin, he holds the bag out with a small smile at the domesticity of it all. “Have a great day,” he offers, leaning down to kiss Maeglin’s cheek, well aware that there are people all around them and not quite certain how comfortable Maeglin is with anything public.

_We really need to have that talk, really. Damn, this is so backwards._

Maeglin’s careful smile melts into a confused look, standing on the pavement with his half-finished mug of coffee in hand, only to reemerge at the feel of warm breath against his heating cheek. Something inside him tingles, spreading outward in a dreamy spiral, turning the surroundings into a surreal painting of colour.

Almost shyly, he stands up on tiptoes, marvelling at the fact that he has to, and finds that he feels a lot braver when they’re like this for some odd reason. Raising a hand, Maeglin teases the short hairs at Gothmog’s nape, bringing him down to rub his lips over Gothmog’s once, _twice…_ touching the seam of that soft pink mouth with the tip of his tongue, sighing a ghost of a breath against it. Void, he wishes he had more time for this – more time to forget, and to _remember_. More time to let Gothmog lull him into the pleasure-soaked dream Maeglin’s been floating in for the past 12 hours.

“Thanks for the ride,” he murmurs, running his free hand down Gothmog’s shoulder, tracing a line down his side and over his hip, teasing his fingers across the soft fabric of his shirt covering the dip of his lower back. “You’ve been so good to me.”

“Mmmm...Maeglin…” Gothmog groans, resting a fist on the roof of the car behind Maeglin as he leans in, those teasing kisses far too good to resist. Pulling back slightly, well aware that every part of him would much rather continue, he steals one last lick across that pouty lower lip. “You’ll be late if you keep doing this, my sweet…” 

Maeglin knows.

“Yeah.” He sighs, a little regretful and anxious, forcing the colours around them to take shapes once more. He’s forgetting something – he knows he’s forgetting _something_ … “Let’s see how fast I can run.” For a second, he panics, unable to recall what lecture hall he’s supposed to go to. It’s not healthy to let all the anxiety gather up like this and then let it loose all at once – Maeglin should know better, but then again, he’s been way too fucking happy for the first time in ages. 

“Good luck,” Gothmog smiles, holding out the brown bag.

Grateful, Maeglin takes the proffered bag of lunch, leaning in for one last kiss though he doesn’t dare to linger, knowing he’s really pushing it. Maeglin’s already among the last to arrive. Securing the brown paper bag under his arm, he turns away, feeling the weight of the world ahead of him already. Maybe this is what normal people do. Maybe their feet are both heavy and light like this.

“Call me,” he hollers, risking a look over his shoulder before turning away, sprinting quickly across the courtyard as balanced as he can be with his hands full. 

His heart feels heavier with every move, and he can’t shake the feeling something’s off…

Shaking his head fondly, Gothmog returns to the front seat of his car, watching Maeglin’s long legs as he runs towards the distant tower. _Damn those are good legs. And arse._  

He _really_ regrets Maeglin’s morning lecture interrupting his far more pleasurable plans. 

 

* * *

 

“Mr. László,” the lecturer says, his hand on the door handle, expression marked with something that could be barely concealed amusement, disapproval, or an odd mixture of both. “Your timing is impeccable.”

“Thanks, professor Rockwell,” Maeglin says, breathing a little hard, the hastily pulled ponytail unravelling at the sides. He slips past the man, into the hall which is nearly full of students. “I aim to please.”

“What was that?”

“Sorry – I’ll work on it.” It’s not worth it to get sassy with teachers – it’s bitten Maeglin in the arse before. He finds a free seat, and – normally he would spread his notes on the desk and take out his pens, but he’s got nothing now. Donning his best smile, he turns towards the girl next to him, asking if she has any spare – the look she gives him isn’t overly friendly, but she gives him two sheets of paper. The guy – younger than Maeglin by several years, by the look of him – parts with his pencil easier, maybe slightly intimidated. Maeglin knows he’s not making any friends like this, but that’s hardly his first.

Heart still beating fast, he looks towards the podium where the professor is rummaging through his case.

_Sediments. Erosion. Wind. Water._

_Call me._

Maeglin groans.

“Mr. László? Something you’d like to share?”

“No.”

_I’m the biggest fucking idiot._

Maeglin tries really hard to listen during the lecture, scribbling notes in his roughly tilted handwriting and putting page numbers in the margins to check later, throwing somewhat discreet looks to his sides to see what others are doing.

And yet he’s very aware he’s wasting his time. He can’t focus at all. Professor Rockwell could be reading his shopping list for all he knows.

 

* * *

 

Gothmog wears a goofy grin all the way home, well aware that his hair is still messy and the collar of his t-shirt reveals a purplish green mark he hadn’t noticed the night before. 

In the shower, Gothmog discovers more marks, left behind in shapes of kisses, as well as a few twinges that show his body was well used. It pleases him, seeing the marks – last night still feels a little unreal – wondering how long it will be before he can see Maeglin once more. 

_Too long_.

 

* * *

 

The lecture drags on interminably. When the break finally comes, Maeglin stands up, grabbing his lunch bag, and slithers out along with the crowd, more than ready to stretch his legs. Finding a safe, relatively quiet spot, he finally sits down and starts to unwrap his sandwich, wondering what an ungrateful, stupid git Gothmog must think he is. Maeglin could always end up at his doorstep again, but this is starting to get ridiculous. 

A part of Maeglin is angry. Another wants to cry, just a bit. _How into each other can we be if we always fail to exchange something as basic as numbers?_

It’s like a game, this thing they play.

The sandwich is absurdly good, the chicken juicy and pesto like velvet, but Maeglin’s having hard time appreciating it. The salad’s sitting untouched – he wonders if it’ll last him back home, he could have that for dinner.

_Maybe we just genuinely forgot?_

_Both of us?_

Sighing, Maeglin finishes off his sandwich, picking up the napkin and wiping his mouth on it. He’s halfway through disposing it when something catches his eye, and a flood of relief washes through him like a gigantic wave.

He straightens out the paper, lamenting the green-tinted grease on it, and flattens it over his denim-covered thigh. Thank fuck it’s not too badly ruined – he can read it, and in fact reads it several times in a row, heart skipping beats at every second word.

 

* * *

 

“You have that face again,” Fëanor tells him when he gets to the office, glancing up from his computer. “The ‘I got my brains fucked out last night’-face.”

“Cos I _did_ ,” Gothmog laughs. “Don’t be a jealous sod, Feener.” 

“I don’t know why I keep letting you call me by that atrocious nickname,” Fëanor grumbles, accepting the rebuff with the bad grace of a man recently separated from his wife. 

“Privilege of having known your grumpy arse since I was in a diapers and couldn’t pronounce your name?” Gothmog shrugs, turning on his computer. “And before you ask, it’s still very new and _hopeful_ … so let me live on my cloud a little longer, aye?”

“ _Love_ , ptah!” Fëanor replies, true Ebenezer Scrooge style, but he can’t quite hide the longing in his eyes, or the quick aborted glance at the place on his desk where the family portrait stands alone, lacking the company of Nerdanel’s clay-spattered grin that he moved to the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet after the separation was official. 

Gothmog doesn’t comment on that, turning the topic to the people he’s meeting in an hour and the project he hopes to sell them on as investors. That whole situation with Nerdanel needs a therapist, and though he’s been seeing one for nearing 7 years, Gothmog won’t pretend to know how to fix a wife who feels neglected in favour of her husband’s work or a husband who thinks his wife resents him so he seeks refuge in his work because neither of them seem to be able to talk to each other anymore.

Maeglin’s sleepy satisfied face continues to appear in his mind, looking adorably rumpled and fucked out, and Gothmog can’t wait to repeat the acts that paint such gentle looks in Maeglin’s eyes, softening his sharp angles and making him so very _precious_.

Thinking about his hot new lover is perhaps not the most appropriate frame of mind for a business meeting, but Gothmog feels light as he walks into the sternly appointed room, preparing to give the speech that will hopefully convince his audience to invest in his newest gentrification project. 

 

* * *

 

It’s not until after his meeting, when he feels an urge to call Maeglin to tell him how it went – he’s not entirely sure the man knows what he really does for a living, but he feels like gushing at _someone_ – that he realises that he _still hasn’t got Maeglin’s number._  

Groaning at himself, Gothmog runs agitated fingers through his hair. 

_I guess that means the ball is in your court, Maegs…_

Slightly uplifted at the memory of the whim that saw him scribble a note on Maeglin’s napkin – Maman always did that and no packed lunch is complete without some small note from the giver – containing _his_ number, Gothmog calls Thuri instead, feeling the need for celebratory ice cream. 

 

* * *

 

The break is over too quickly, and Maeglin finds himself fingering his phone beneath the desk, absentmindedly following along with the lecture. He’s been through several attempts of writing the _perfect_ first message, steadily frustrating himself with his own ineptitude. Professor Rockwell’s words buzz through his consciousness, and time after time Maeglin needs to drag his attention back to the whiteboard, copying the new notes which have made their way there while his head was in the clouds.

Void, he should just get it over with. It can’t be that difficult to send a bloody text, after all – he has already spent way too much energy on this.

Taking a sip from his water bottle – blessing Gohmog’s thoughtfulness – Maeglin stashes his phone away, exasperated, knowing he should leave it alone until he can give it his full attention.

Rockwell has returned to his desk and is holding two identical pieces of rock in his hands. Maeglin feels lost. And then he realises that they aren’t quite identical after all: Rockwell is weighing them, throwing each into the air. The one in his right hand is heavier.

The girl next to him kicks Maeglin’s ankle, making him realise that his long legs are eating away at her space, and he closes them swiftly, bumping the desk in the progress – his knee is bony, and the sound is loud enough to cause a few jumps of alarm.

Rockwell looks up, meeting his eyes as if he knows exactly who to blame for the interruption.

Maeglin’s face colours. He rearranges his feet quietly and hunches over his notes, suddenly beyond interested in his haphazard writing.

But the rocks couldn’t be farther from his mind.

_Thanks for last night_ , he scribbles on the paper, right under a crossed over _I can’t stop thinking about last night_. Beneath that, there’s the same line, but with _last night_ replaced by _you_. He’d discarded that option as too sappy. He shouldn’t sound too desperate. He should sound more casual.

_Cool._

He should sound _cool_.

_Can I pretend to be a cool guy for like two minutes?_

Maeglin’s pen is moving again.

_My arse is so raw right now and I just want you to pummel it all tender again._

There’s a small sound to his left, and Maeglin looks up, finding the silverhaired girl’s face all red and odd, her eyes fixed on Rockwell a bit too intensely. Maeglin would only credit him with such devoted interest if the man was dancing naked in front of them all, juggling dildos.

He turns the paper over and writes on the blank side.

_Since you read all that already_

_I had a really good date with someone and I need to send him a text..._

_Help?_

Maeglin nudges the paper a little closer to the girl, but it takes a couple of moments for her to take the hint and look down. He can’t really blame her.

It takes another minute for her to pick up her pen and start writing underneath Maeglin’s tilted words, her letters far more legible than his scrawl.

They’re done in two minutes.

 

* * *

 

Gothmog’s goofy expression when his phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number is more than enough to make Thuri smirk knowingly at him. Gothmog blushes lightly, feeling hotter at the way her eyebrow inches up, that familiar expression of ‘Gotcha’ on her face that she always wears when she figures him out in a heartbeat. Sometimes, he thinks, she knows him too well, handing over the message with a small sigh of surrender. 

If he didn’t love her so much, it’d be _very_ annoying. 

 

Her smugness melts into genuine fondness as she hands the phone back to him. “Well, he’s polite, at least,” she says, a small smile playing around her lips, “and not too hesitant about showing his interest…” 

“I… I like him, Thuri,” Gothmog admits quietly, feeling the truth of the words fill him with certainty. “He’s… I _like him_.”

“I see,” Thuri replies thoughtfully. 

Gothmog thinks that she really does – he knows her just as well as she knows _him_ , after all. 

Thuri’s grin turns almost shark-like when she adds, “And don’t even _try_ to deny that you want to blow me off to go play at punching with this Maeglin… or _more_.” Chuckling, she winks at him, licking her ice cream suggestively. 

“You are a menace,” he tells her honestly, trying not to notice how his pants feel a little snugger at the memory of Maeglin’s sweet mouth. 

“You love me,” she shrugs, grinning, “and you love me _even more_ because I _am_ going to let you blow me off to go spend time with your new beau – _this once!_ ” 

Gothmog nods, his own grin a lewd thing with a life of its own as he waves for the cheque, his free hand typing a quick text before he can think better of it. 

 

* * *

 

Gothmog arrives at the gym first, still filled with the warmth of excitement – and no small amount of desire, returning the the site of his first seduction of Maeglin. He grins to himself as he dresses in his workout clothes, going through his warm-up exercises with less than full focus, unable to stop himself looking up every time the door opens.

But Maeglin hasn’t appeared by the time he’s ready to move through his weights training, and Gothmog forces himself to concentrate. Doing himself an injury because he’s distracted by a new lover… Glorfindel would never let him hear the end of it, for starters, and seeing the guy you like when you’re busy being in pain is less than optimal date conditions regardless. 

Starting low, he adds a few plates to either end of his favourite bar – Thuri had given it to him when he opened the gym, along with a set of hot-pink dumbbells that see far more use than the bar, with a lofty comment about de-testosteroning the place– it’s bright pink, and most of the young trainees think it’s too ‘girly’ so it’s usually available. 

The gym is slow at this point of the afternoon, most people still at work, but one or two earlies are around  – Fëanor’s youngest is doing handweights over by the mirror, and some other guy about the same age is sweating on the treadmill, completely absorbed by whatever is going on in his headphones as his sneakers pound the rolling ribbon. 

“Afternoon Amrod,” Gothmog greets, nodding at the young red-head. 

“Hullo, sir,” Amrod returns, focusing on his form in the full-length mirror. 

“Looking good,” Gothmog nods, taking a moment to evaluate his student. 

Amrod smiles, obviously pleased by the compliment. He hasn’t been working out long, but he has the determination and motivation to keep going, which Gothmog appreciates in his trainees.

Lying back on the bench, Gothmog sets his feet properly, ensuring that his grip is right – wrists straight – before lifting the bar from its brackets. Bringing his arms down slowly, he relishes the feel of the weight burning in his muscles, raising it once again for another five reps before letting the bar settle back into its brackets. 

More weight going on the bar, securing the clamps with practised ease and double-checking his work as always, never moving under the bar until he’s satisfied that everything is _just_ so.

This set is a little harder, enough to make him begin to sweat some, but not too strenuous. Ten reps, a small rest, then another ten reps. 

“Looking good, coach,” Amrod echoes, a cheeky grin that reminds Gothmog of the boy’s mother on his face. 

“Ha!” he grunts. “Cheeky wee thing.” Flexing his wrists, Gothmog smiles. “You’ll get there, Amrod,” he winks, getting up to add another ten kilos. 

“I know… taking forever though,” Amrod sighs, staring at his arms with dismay. Scrawny, yes, but the guy is barely 18, and he _is_ beginning to get some definition going – in Gothmog’s opinion. 

“That’s what everyone thinks in the beginning,” Gothmog replies, “though I admit I see _less_ change in my own physique in six months than you will…”

“Yeah, but you’re already _huge_ ,” Amrod grins, nodding at Gothmog’s bulging biceps. “I can’t wait till I can do that… Amras is stronger than me.” 

_Because Amras began working out regularly two years before you, and spends a lot of his time playing rugby._ Amrod was always the more cerebral of the two, and Gothmog isn’t surprised by his choice of theatre as a career – honestly a bit proud to be asked to help the guy buff up for some of the more demanding roles – while Amras prefers sports, aiming for a pro spot with the Ashes.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, kid,” Gothmog grunts, settling the bar back on its stand for a moment. “But I don’t want to see you do this without a spotter, you hear? More’n my life’s worth if your Mum thinks I got you maimed somehow.”

The young man blushes, nodding – everyone has a healthy fear of disappointing Nerdanel, after all, even – or perhaps particularly – Fëanor – even though he’s still got an envious look on his face as he obediently turns back to the mirror, keeping an eye on his form as he curls the weights. 

“I won’t,” he promises, “I’m following the program we made.”

“Good.” Taking a swig of water from his bottle, Gothmog gives him another onceover. “And I know you don’t think there’s much to see,” he adds, “but you couldn’t have done thirty of those without a break three weeks ago. Keep up the good work.”

Lying back down, he hefts the pink bar once more, grunting slightly as he settles the weight and begins another series of reps, bringing it down over his nipples, keeping his arms level with his body, a perfect 90 degree angle on the elbow.

 

* * *

 

Backlash from the autumn-like wind blows Maeglin’s hair into his face as he enters the gym, wrapped up in a thick scarf and his beanie pressed all the way down to his eyebrows. If he owned a pair of sunglasses, he’d probably have put them on just for the additional incognito-effect – but a quick glance around the boxing area shows no sign of Glorfindel’s trademark golden hair, and Maeglin breathes a small sigh of relief. 

It really is just typical of him to suggest a meeting at the gym where he’s been surprised by Lysild twice now, counting that unfortunate phone call.

_Corben’s probably right saying stuff about my intelligence. Pot and kettle, that._

Frowning at himself, he zips down his jacket and pulls a little at the scarf, feeling a hint of sweat at the nape of his neck. A quick glance at the clock on the wall tells Maeglin it’s already nearly half past five; he’s more than fashionably late. 

He spots a couple of people beating away at the bags, giving him brief nods of acknowledgement in passing. He gives them a small wave in return and walks through the room, shoulders drawn tight with lingering discomfort.

Then he hears a familiar groan, though somehow sharper than Maeglin remembers it, and after that metal clanks against metal, harsh and ringing. It jolts through his head despite the earbuds still blasting Arch Enemy into his ears, and he pulls them out swiftly to let more of that noise in.

A smile spreads across Maeglin’s lips as he slinks closer, drawing in the ever-present odour of sweat and steel and leather, sneakers whispering faintly against the floor.

There’s a boy with auburn hair working out in the weight area with his eyes fixed to the mirror – familiar, somehow, though Maeglin’s memory fails at coming up with an accurate connection. He gives him exactly one and half seconds of consideration before his eyes drift to the man on the bench, and the breath rushes out of his lungs.

Maybe being late isn’t such a bad thing, after all.

Not if _this_ is the sight he gets as a reward. And still a part of him mourns that he wasn’t there to witness the first appearance of the moisture now dotting that glowing skin, dappled with more freckles than Maeglin can count.

Gothmog lifts the bar again, sweat gleaming in the hollow of his throat as he strains against the weight, muscles bulging and a groan of effort escaping his big chest. He makes it _seem_ almost effortless, though Maeglin knows it takes a lot of work to have a body that strong and well-tuned. 

The little studs piercing Gothmog’s nipples show deliciously through the thin fabric of his top every time he lowers the bar, his form perfect – not that Maeglin really knows anything about lifting, but he would have to be blind not to appreciate Gothmog’s innate grace of motion that makes even this sort of coarse activity look sensual and polished. 

_Damn._

Maeglin’s mouth waters, wishing he could climb those hips right about now. He shifts a little in his place, counting each time those perfect strong arms lift the pink bar. Time stretches, becoming one eternal moment of Maeglin’s throbbing loins and the potent, alluring image of Gothmog seared right into his brain.

It’s almost too easy to forget that he’s not alone here with the man of his sexy dreams. Drawing in a breath of air to clear the fog in his head, Maeglin moves a little, as if his feet had just brought him here – though he’s certain his eyes are sparkling with every lascivious thought that just passed through his head. 

Opening his mouth, he offers a greeting that sounds more husky than he meant. “Hey. Sorry I’m late.” 

The words float into Gothmog’s head through the haze of inner focus that he always seems to fall into during a good work-out, finding a certain serenity in the repetitive exercise of muscles that know what they’re meant to be doing.

Completing his set with a few more lifts, he finally sets the bar back on its stand, allowing himself to breathe and rest for ten seconds before sitting up and looking at Maeglin. Swiping sweaty hair off his forehead, he smiles. 

Maeglin almost wants to make an excuse – he’d gone home to get his workout clothes only to realise they were already where he was meant to be at 16:30 sharp, ready to sweat his skin off – but it sounds too stupid even in his own head. 

“Late’s better than never,” he rumbles, picking up his bottle and taking a long pull before looking at Amrod who is doing some of the yoga stretches he taught him to keep limber. “Maegs, this is Amrod,” he adds, nodding at the young man. Getting up, he claps Amrod once on the shoulder, “and Amrod, you can stop being a mother hen now, I’m finished with the barbells. Don’t want you to be late for dinner.” 

Amrod flushes. “Yes, sir,” he says, a little meek at being caught out, and rolls up the mat he’d used. 

“I appreciate the thought, lad,” Gothmog grins, giving him a wink, “you’re a sweet guy for worrying.”

Amrod just nods, lingering hesitantly and biting his lip. “Uhm… It’s Opening Night tomorrow…” he mumbles, fiddling with his water bottle. 

“And I’m dragging your dad there, come hell or high water, I swear,” Gothmog promises, “and you’ll be _amazing_ , and that chorus girl is going to swoon all over you at the after party, and then I’ll see you back here Sunday afternoon, yes?”

Amrod hugs him. It’s not entirely unexpected, though Gothmog feels a little odd having Maeglin staring at them, but he wraps his arms around Amrod for a small squeeze anyway. 

“It’ll be alright, son,” Gothmog says softly. Amrod took the separation harder than any of his brothers, convinced somehow that his odd-man-out interests have contributed to the disintegration of his parents’ marriage. “You’ll be alright.” 

When he lets go, not quite able to hide his sniffles, Amrod nods, fleeing towards the changing rooms without another word, which is also not unexpected. He’s a sensitive soul, but recently he’s grown into some funny ideas on how a man should act with other men – Gothmog blames Fëanor’s emotional retreat from his family for that. He hopes the guy grows out of them eventually.

“I’m done with the weights for now,” he says, looking at Maeglin, “but you should go get changed if you want to work out – wait, has it started storming outside? You’re dressed like it’s suddenly midwinter?” Tugging at one end of the thick knitted scarf, Gothmog smiles. “I could unwrap you like a present… _later_.”

Maeglin smiles back at him, following the tug on his scarf and leaning in a little. The heat coming off of Gothmog is something he can feel through his layers of clothing; a beautiful furnace, fire singing in those veins that stand out on the pumped muscles of his arms.

Maeglin fancies he can hear it – suddenly the jacket is way too much, but he ignores the question and nods after the boy he’d just seen leave. “He alright? Did I interrupt something?”

He tries to not sound jealous. There was nothing of _that_ kind in the hug, after all. 

“He’s going through some things,” Gothmog says, and that’s as far as he’s willing to go on someone else’s private life. “Probably best you give him a few minutes to get into the shower before you go change – I put your stuff in 297 – but you could ditch the coat and tell me about your day while I put this away?” Turning back to the bench, he wipes it down carefully with his towel, taking another drink of water before undoing the clamps and beginning to dismantle and pack away the heavy discs.

“My day, huh?” Maeglin shrugs lightly, not interested enough to pry. He gives that broad back a long look followed by skittish fingers that dance down the path of Gothmog’s spine in passing, then shrugs out of his jacket. “It was alright… though I think my professor is out to get me. He doesn’t like my face.” He could say a lot more about Rockwell but refrains from being too petty. It doesn’t matter here. “Sorry about the abrupt end to our morning. I swear I can’t fucking keep my days straight.”

Maeglin smiles apologetically, though his tone probably gave away some of his self-frustration. Angling for a cheerier one, he asks, “What of yours, hm, Firebrand?” 

“Pretty good – my morning meeting went well, so I think we’ll have funding for a new project soon,” Gothmog preens, throwing a wide grin over his shoulder. “Did you want to work out this afternoon, by the way… or did you come here more for a visual treat?” Waggling his eyebrows, he gestures at his own sweaty chest, flexing one arm in an approximation of a muscle pinup pose. “Although it’s better without the shirt… but this _is_ a public place.”

_Oh_ – Maeglin definitely likes Gothmog like this, flirty and confident and sexy as sin. Glancing around briefly, he steps into Gothmog’s space, pressing his fingertips against that scorching hot chest while tilting his face for a kiss, wanting to know if his tongue is just as hot.

“Lot of sugar in this eye candy,” he murmurs, sliding a hand up the slick neck. “Even if it looks pretty low-fat to me... Maybe I’d better spend some calories while I’m here.” 

“Oh so you’re going to eat me, hmm?” Gothmog teases, returning the kiss with a small nip at Maeglin’s bottom lip. “Well, that could be arranged, I suppose. _However_ ,” he adds, pulling back, “not in the weightroom – it’s hardly private – and also I need you to fill out the form _properly this time_ if you’re going to train with me _.”_ Smacking Maeglin lightly on the butt he nudges him towards the locker room. “And _then_ there might be a treat in it for you!”

“I thought I filled it out fine,” Maeglin says, fingering the sleeve of his jacket, folded over his arm. In truth, he has no goddamn memory about the paperwork, too distracted by Glorfindel’s unfortunate presence to focus on it. “But yeah, sure.”

He’s not exactly put off by Gothmog being so… _professional_ – this is his workplace, after all, although Maeglin had assumed he would be fine with meeting like this here. It creates a weird contrast to their first meeting – which certainly was _everything but_ professional – and Maeglin doesn’t know what to think of that. 

In retrospect, the whole thing feels like a dream.

Everything about this thing between them has been surreal, really. 

Maeglin feels a disturbing tingle run along his body, like his limbs have been asleep for a day or two though he’s wide awake, eyes blinking in the white artificial light. Gothmog – who is currently busy being efficient, putting this and that back in place, motions that he must have repeated a thousand times over – looks exactly like the man who fucked Maeglin into oblivion against the wall, and yet somehow _more,_ as if Maeglin had somehow found dimensions in him that are invisible to human eye.

It’s weird, and disconcerting – Maeglin pinches his own wrist, leaving throbbing crescents in the skin.

_Not a dream. I’m really here._

“I’ll go change, then. Back in a minute.”

Watching Maeglin saunter off, Gothmog has to smile; Maeglin clearly expected a repeat of the last time they were together in this place and while he wouldn’t be _opposed_ to making him scream with pleasure again, there is a time and place for such things – and Gothmog prefers not to have an audience, either. Shaking his head at himself, Gothmog returns the weights to their rack, wiping down the bar he’d used and putting it in the stand with its silver fellows, tracing the pink metal rod with a soft smile. 

Saturdays, the gym closes at five, and only people like Glorfindel – who has the benefit of being a personal friend – or new trainees with appointments are allowed in. Gothmog likes to keep his weekend evenings to himself, after all, but today is Thursday and the gym has filled up pretty well in the time he’s been hefting iron. 

 

* * *

 

Maeglin pushes open the door to the locker room, breathing in the slightly musky, slightly musty scent which seems to be the same in every gym, welcoming and intimidating at the same time. Maeglin’s used to it – and if he strains his nose, he can catch a hint of Gothmog’s cologne, and that calms him down a little as he locates his forgotten shorts and tee, finding them clean and smelling fresh.

A hint of warmth worms its way inside him, and he smiles as he pulls his soft old shirt over his fluffy, distracted head. 

 

* * *

 

Fetching a clean form from the office, Gothmog waits for Maeglin to return. The first one he’d left in the bin after sending him that email – Maeglin had ‘filled it out’ with illegible scribbles that Gothmog is pretty sure weren’t even masquerading as words. He also thinks he’s got an idea of the _why_. Given his glimpses of Maeglin’s personal history, walking into a gym to a solo after-hours appointment with a military veteran must have been more than a little unnerving, and if he bailed on the form to give himself a no-strings way out, Gothmog doesn’t even blame him. 

Thinking about it, it really is a wonder that Maeglin managed to get over his initial fear so quickly, though he wonders what Maeglin expected when he packed his bag – lube is not a standard in gym equipment so far as Gothmog is concerned. Going to a work-out prepared for a sexual encounter is fairly enterprising, though Maeglin might have been going out afterwards – the fact that Gothmog himself went along with it is really more out of character. He’s had a lot of sex over the years, but his one night stands or similar hook-ups can be counted on one hand by a guy with a history of sawmill accidents. 

Still, it’s important for the making of a useful program to know what the person doing the workout wants to see as a result – and easier to motivate them when the work seems to go nowhere, too – and in that Maeglin is no different from the other people Gothmog has trained. 

When Maeglin returns, wearing the same ratty shirt and shorts that Gothmog had washed and left for him, another smile threatens – along with a memory that tightens his groin with a surge of lust. 

“Do you have an idea of your comfort zone when it comes to machinery?” he asks, waving him over to an ab-crunch setup. “Building up core strength is important no matter your end goal.”

Maeglin has to grin at that, watching that dark something pass through Gothmog’s gaze and maybe they’re both remembering the same thing – or maybe it’s the way Maeglin stretches himself, leaning slowly down towards the toes of his left foot, then moving over to the right, finding himself still nimbler than average. That’s luckily something his mother passed onto him – Eöl was always grunting and rigid with all sorts of pains. 

He straightens himself, jumping a little in his place, light on his feet. “Want to check if I’m wet behind the ears? Or do I just look a little green?”

_Being your trainer…_ Gothmog thinks, torn between amused and aroused. _I wonder if I could foist it off on Glorfindel? – No, I’ll just live with the blue balls. Dammit, I love the way you smile at me._

Forcing himself to be professional, Gothmog tries to shake the memory of Maeglin’s water-glistening body from his mind. It’s not easy. “Have you done workouts in this manner before, or are you new to machines entirely?” 

Truthfully, it’s been a long time since Maeglin used anything other than a treadmill in a place like this – or even visited a place like this, not counting their last… appointment. Sighing, a little amused and a little nervous, he points at the treadmill. “I told you I was a runner, right? Did competitive sports in high school. We had a training regime and all. My thighs were twice as big as they are now.”

Well, no, they hadn’t been, but he’d definitely had more muscle definition – which is a bit sad, considering he was a post-pubescent teen back then and now he’s a 27-year-old adult who should be in his physical prime. Maeglin almost waits for Gothmog to call him on his bullshit. 

“Just wondering how much I’ll need to demonstrate before I let you loose,” Gothmog points out good-naturedly, “wouldn’t want you to injure yourself. Maybe we’ll start you at 10 kg and see how that goes.” Taking his place in the metal contraption, he grins, setting the weight at his own comfort-level. “Now, watch how I do it – you’ll want to feel it, but it shouldn’t be excessively difficult; better too little weight with more reps than too high, okay?” Resting his arms and legs, relaxing those muscles, Gothmog uses his abs to crunch, pulling the weight as his leg are pulled towards his chest, exhaling with the slight strain of the slow movement. “Nice and easy. Exhale as you move, then pause,” he pauses holding the position for a few seconds, “then exhale as you move back to the starting position.” 

It’s not that easy to focus on listening to the instructions when your trainer looks like that – soft freckled skin damp with perspiration and eyes gleaming with both attraction and occupational pride, and that’s not even counting those _abs_. Maeglin has to fight hard not to lean in and touch them.

Or lick them.

Or just rub himself all over Gothmog’s hot body – preferably naked.

Demonstrating it a few more times, Gothmog gets off the machine, resetting the pin to the agreed 10 kg. “Your turn.”

Maeglin almost wants to say something about the starting weight Gothmog’s offering him, shaking his head to dislodge the thoughts of a far more pleasant workout. When he settles into the machine and pulls the weight the first time it feels like such a horrid understatement that he’s almost offended – grinning at Gothmog, he repeats the motion twice, thrice, a few more times – and surprisingly enough, he’s starting to feel it.

It’s not exactly encouraging, but whatever.

“Like so?” Maeglin breathes, not stopping, though he feels his pulse pick up. “My technique alright at least?” 

“Slower,” Gothmog coaches, “rushing a set will only hurt you.” Putting his hand on Maeglin’s abdomen, he breathes with him, trying not to be affected by the nearness of him, the scent of his skin mingling with the sharp scent of metal from the machine. _Later, Balrogath._

 

* * *

 

Sadly, there continue to be too many other people around for a repeat of the last time Maeglin was in the gym, but the lust burning between them is only banked, not smothered, ready to burst into bright flame as soon as they get home… except Gothmog seems keen to insist on food first.

The grumbling of his own belly convinces Maeglin to go along with that plan, keeping his hands to himself in the car even though he steals a few kisses in the elevator.

Patches is there to push at his aching calves before he’s even managed to struggle out of his sneakers, causing him to search for his balance for one precarious moment when he almost sweeps at her with his foot and has to gracelessly support himself against the coat rack.

“Hey kitty,” he grumbles, “I thought we had this conversation last time.” Despite his slightly peeved tone, Maeglin crouches to pet the cat that seems to be growing out of her kitten’y fluff, her back already sleek and shiny with black and orange adult fur. She sniffs at his hand and headbutts it gently, and the silent approval feels surprisingly good. Smiling after her high-held, flicking tail, Maeglin hangs his jacket and drops his finally reclaimed gym bag on the floor with a soft thud.

He’s feeling achy – and not all pleasantly – and has half a mind to ask Gothmog for a quick massage. Having those hands on his spent body would do all sorts of magic right now, and it’s not like something hasn’t simmered in the air between them since – and during – the hour they spent torturing Maeglin’s body in ways that definitely should be both illegal and impossible.

Part of him feels certain that Gothmog derived some sort of sadistic pleasure from it – isn’t it only fair that he also take care of the consequences?

Following Patches into the kitchen, Maeglin watches Gothmog pulling all sorts of things from the fridge and cupboards, piling them up on the counter.

Patches meows, making rounds around her owner’s feet, calling for attention.

“Hush Miss Kitty,” Gothmog murmurs, “I’ll be right there.”

“Let me,” Maeglin says, recalling where her food is kept. “First things first, hmm?” He grins, popping open the can. “Didn’t you get the memo that humans only exist to serve their feline overlords?” 

“Ahh, yes, but I like to be a rebellious subject at times,” Gothmog returns, picking up a knife and gesturing at the assorted vegetables before hims. “You good with some grilled chicken and rice – maybe stir-fry?”

When Maeglin nods, he begins cutting the vegetables into strips, setting a small pot of water to boil for the rice. 

Scooping the cat food into a small dish, Maeglin sets Patches’ dinner before her, running his hand through her fur and scratching behind one small ear. 

“Grand,” Gothmog smiles, “it won’t take too long.” 

“Sounds good,” Maeglin nods, getting up to wash his hands – only to end up sort of left over as he watches Gothmog move around the stove with an air of efficiency that seems entirely self-sufficient.

Putting the chicken into a small pan and sprinkling some dried thyme over it with the salt and pepper, Gothmog pops the dish into the oven, pouring a measure of rice into its pot and turning the heat down. With the chicken cooking on its own, there is time for a relaxing glass of white wine - Maeglin has earned a bit of a treat for his hard work, after all. 

_Fuck, he doesn’t drink. I’m such a bastard._

Covering up the motion for the bottle left to chill in the fridge by pulling out a carton of juice instead, Gothmog curses his own thoughtlessness, scowling as he pours the fruit juice into two tumblers, adding a few cubes of ice to each glass. 

“Here,” Gothmog says, voice on the gruffer side - embarrassment making him uncomfortable - handing Maeglin his drink. 

_Thoughtless clotheid._

Walking into the living room, Gothmog sits heavily on the sofa, turning on the TV just to cover up the sudden silence between them, sipping at his juice without seeing whatever is on the screen before him, too lost in berating himself for his insensitivity. 

Maeglin stares after Gothmog – then at his drink, as if it could offer him answers for why he’s suddenly abandoned in the kitchen with a glass of juice while the dinner continues merrily cooking itself. He’d been caught in his own thoughts for a while, trying to keep out of the way and enjoying the show, and void if he knows if Gothmog somehow took his inaction the wrong way.

He clenches his jaw, suddenly wishing for a cigarette while dramatic music blasts out way too loud from the living room. He stands there, glass in hand, hair standing up at the nape of his neck until Gothmog seemingly grants a small mercy to their ears and turns the volume down a notch.

Maeglin slinks to the doorway, watching Gothmog’s profile from the relative safety of the kitchen. His jaw’s set – eyes seem too intent on the screen but they aren’t moving at all beneath the strong brows, and Maeglin imagines he’s not actually seeing much of it, or at least caring what’s on.

Glancing at the screen, he certainly hopes so.

“…The ancient Egyptians were ahead of their time by hundreds – no, thousands of years – if you consider their technical prowess, their like didn’t exist before and not after until the dawn of the new age, and this alone…”

_The hell?_ There’s a dark cloud hanging in the living room and Maeglin’s got no idea how it got there, a sinking feeling in his gut telling him that he’s to blame – somehow.

“…We were lucky enough to meet with one of the few scientists specialised in psychic archaeology, Dr. B.A. L. Loon who has been studying the mysteries of the ancient Egyptians for 45 years, and who has written several books on his astounding theories of the origin of mankind –”

_Should I go?_ Maeglin takes the tiniest sip of his drink, hardly tasting it, ice cube clinking against his front teeth. _Do you want me to go but you’re just waiting for me to figure it out myself?_  

Beside him, Patches stretches, yawning, and begins to groom her side with her pink, barbed tongue.

He picks her up, ignoring her small noise of surprise, and carries her into the living room, gingerly sitting down beside Gothmog and carefully setting his glass down on the coffee table. Tension runs heavy like lead, and Maeglin’s forced to admire in some begrudging way how Gothmog’s mood seems to fill a space, no matter where he is.

Maeglin’s glass clinks against the glass coffee table – _an accusation of sound_ – but he doesn’t speak; the silence is worse than a voiced dissatisfaction, really. Gothmog freezes, keeping his eyes pointing straight ahead in an effort to escape the disappointment in Maeglin’s eyes.

The tv blares, the image a distorted mish-mash of colour that might as easily be a tractor auction as an avantgarde feature for all Gothmog sees. 

He hates waiting for the harsh words, but defending himself will only make it worse, and so he says nothing.

“Were they really from outer space? Could we have learned the art of pyramids from a race of ancient cosmic travellers who devoted themselves to uplifting other species from their muddy homes in the ground to vast palaces and perfectly symmetrical structures that both defy the laws of physics and adhere to them in ways so accurate that only modern humans could achieve –”

Maeglin runs his fingers down Patches’ back until she relaxes slightly and retracts the claws she’d sunken into his arm. He doesn’t dare to look at Gothmog for fear of seeing something alien in those blue eyes. Or seeing something too familiar.

Not that the claptrap on the screen is much better. “I’m afraid I didn’t bring a tinfoil hat.” The inanity slips out before he can stop it. Maeglin shrinks back against the seat.

“Wha..?” Gothmog asks, stumbling out of the forest of self-recriminations and turning his head to look at Maeglin, beyond confused by the nonsequiteur. “Tin...foil?” _Is he talking about the food…?_ He sniffs. There’s no smell of burning.

“Tinfoil _hat_.” Maeglin makes a vague gesture with his hand, pointing at his curly head. “You know... So the aliens can’t influence your mind.” He reaches for his glass, taking a sip before leaning back and continuing the idle stroking of the cat in his lap. Patches opens one eye and gives him a look, long and piercing. Maeglin scratches her behind the ear, and she flexes happily, showing off her sharp claws.

The look on Gothmog’s face doesn’t exactly reveal which one of them has lost his mind. 

Maeglin can’t take it for long, pretending to pay attention to the old fossil now showcasing a miniature pyramid. It involves mathematical formulae far beyond what Maeglin studied in high school, but probably also enough bullshit that it can turn existing reality into a donkey or a chicken.

_Is it too fucking unreasonable of you to be plain enough that an idiot like me understands where we’re at?_

Maeglin knows he’s not good at this. Sensing and seeing that people are mad at him is one thing, causes and correlations… Well, they aren’t always that simple. He’d expected a nice evening to put some hope into his fraying mind, and the food smells fucking delicious already, but Gothmog looks like Maeglin had pissed in his cereal and forced him to eat it. He doesn’t know how to fix that, and now Gothmog’s ignoring him in favour of this stupid ‘ _documentary’_ that, in Maeglin’s mind anyway, doesn’t deserve views from a man as smart as Gothmog.

Beneath that all, he’s getting increasingly pissed, frustrated and afraid, and doesn’t have a clue which side of him is going to win – unless Gothmog fucking does _something_ that makes it right again, or tells Maeglin what to do, how to be _better_ , what he has done to displease him and what to do to make up for it. 

“Oh.” Gothmog looks back at the tv, studying the fellow who looks indistinguishable from old Mr Brannigan who used to stand on the town green and proclaim the end of the earth – with exactly the same tone of voice and sense of conviction. “Err…” Gran always said old Brannigan never was quite right, but he’d lost the plot entirely when his wee lad died of some fever or other. Somehow the guy blathering on the screen exudes that same level of benign insanity. “Well, I suppose it’s an interesting theory…” 

_It’s a pile of utter codswallop served with just enough savvy tv-production to be palatable to the uneducated masses. I feel dumber just for listening for thirty seconds. What even is this shite. Oh. The ‘History’ Channel..._

Patches is purring slightly, a sort of subvocal rumbling of pleasure at the long fingers petting her, but then she jumps and the warm grounding weight of her settles in Gothmog’s lap instead, small headbutts clearly telling him to get with the petting program. Almost mechanically, Gothmog accepts this royal decree, fingers burying themselves in soft fur. 

“I’m sorry,” he sighs, turning his head back to look at Maeglin whose attention is fixed on the tv, mouth thinned with anger simmering beneath the surface. “I didn’t think… I’m sorry, Maeglin.” He hopes his remorse is audible enough – he doesn’t want to end up in a  drawn-out fight, really – petting the long back of his cat for reassurance, his glass left untouched on the table. 

Maeglin tears his gaze off the screen, looking – really looking – at Gothmog now. The odd expression is gone from his face, but there’s something closed yet somehow terribly vulnerable about him that stirs the mess of emotions inside Maeglin further. He laces his empty hands together, fingers wringing until his joints complain; the defeat and sadness passing through Gothmog’s gaze gives room for concern among his whirling emotions. Silently he looks back through the past couple of hours, trying to figure out where he went wrong. There’s no answer.

“No,” Maeglin says, then adds almost inaudibly, black eyes searching Gothmog’s, “What did I do? I don’t know what I got wrong now.”

“It’s not _you_ ,” Gothmog protests, “it’s _me. I’m sorry._ I’ll...” Gesturing tiredly towards the kitchen, he gets up, Patches scampering up his arm to her customary shoulder perch with an affronted meow. “Great,” he sighs, “now the _cat_ is mad at me, too.” Bending, he lets her jump off his back, hardy surprised to see a haughty tail flick as he walks into the kitchen, shooting him a look that can’t be called fond by any stretch of imagination. “ _You look like Arien_ ,” he tells her in rumbly Utumnic, but of course Patches doesn’t care, and the reminder of his ex isn’t particularly helpful to his own mood, either. 

Turning off the plate for the rice, Gothmog bends to check the meat sizzling in the oven and gets his small wok unearthed from its cupboard. Perhaps the evening can still be salvaged with food. 

Maeglin sits, frozen, for a few moments, unsure if the ice from his stomach has trickled down to his feet now. Can’t be, not when he feels cold through and through.

He swallows, listening to the sounds in the kitchen rather than the ongoing monologue of the crazy old gaffer on TV, and after another few seconds rises to his feet. He’s surprisingly steady now that he has to be.

_Like walking to the gallows._

He finds Gothmog going through his meal preparations like a machine, lacking all the usual flair and enthusiasm. _Shit._

“Gothmog,” Maeglin says finally, flinching at his own hollow tone though he recovers quickly and tries to stand his ground there, a step or two away while something vile and hungry nibbles at his heart every passing second. “Are you trying to say you’re done with me?” 

_Wait – WHAT?_  

Gothmog nearly drops the heavy cast-iron wok pan on his feet. “ _No!_ ” 

Staring at Maeglin, he shakes his head, hands closing around bony shoulders before he’s even realised his feet have moved, shaking Maeglin gently. “What are you…?” He feels almost panicky, now, more so than when he put the slender bottle of riesling back in the fridge. “Maeglin, I– I think…” More words are on the tip of his tongue, almost tripping past his teeth but he manages to refrain from excessively saccharine or adoring reassurances. And then an ugly thought hits him, brought on by the earlier mention of the woman who broke his heart in more ways than one, and Gothmog lets go, drawing into himself for comfort. “We... we are not talking about the same thing, are we?” He hopes not, or else this is what his therapist would call large-scale emotional manipulation, spinning his mind out of control from the smallest of infraction – but Maeglin wouldn’t play such a game; he’s not like Arien after all, not sweet if damaged Maeglin who makes his heart beat with the speed of a hummingbird’s wings. 

_Please be what I think you are_. 

Maeglin blinks, his eyelashes fluttering as Gothmog shakes him, and for a second Maeglin fears he’s going boneless on him. The sheer passion that seems to have overtaken Gothmog after all those moments of listless sulking surprises him, puts the frantic electric butterfly back into his chest as he looks up at the man, fingers curling around Gothmog’s elbows.

Words catch in Maeglin’s throat, causing him to open and close his mouth once, twice, until something flees his lips in a breathless rush. “I have no fucking clue what we are talking about.”

_You’re confusing the fuck out of me._

_Please don’t be like this. Please don’t be like the others._

For a moment, silence stretches between them, long and viscous like pulling taffy.

Then it snaps, Gothmog’s heart taking flight as he closes that single step, pulling Maeglin into an almost violently relieved kiss. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. Drawing back slightly, he runs a hand through his hair, feeling his cheeks heat slightly. Freshly kissed is such a good look on Maeglin, he might never tire of seeing it. “I was…” Gesturing half-heartedly at the fridge, he falters. 

“You…?” Maeglin just looks confused, but also a little relieved, the way he licks his lips enough to give Gothmog the courage to finish his confession.

“I was about to offer you a glass of wine while we waited for the food to cook,” he admits sheepishly, looking down at his feet, still half-expecting to be scolded. “I’m sorry.” Turning back to the stove, he cranks up the heat under the wok, adding a generous spoon of coconut oil.

Maeglin lets that sink in for a second, certain that whatever just happened has put some fire into the redhead – Gothmog moves with more purpose now, and the kiss tingles fresh and sweet on Maeglin’s lips. Without a word he opens the fridge and sees the bottle sitting where Gothmog had left it – and without a comment he closes the door with a quiet click and turns towards Gothmog, hesitating a second before laying a hand on his shoulder. The hot hard meat of it feels reassuring and safe beneath his fingers.

“Okay,” Maeglin says, looking up at him before gazing away for a hot second, letting the sizzle of the pan steal away the silence. “Okay. So, you thought I’d get pissed because you almost served me wine.”

_Accusatory. That’s not the tone I wanted._

Maeglin tries again. “I mean, I get that my first reaction was pretty extreme, but it’s not like I can walk through my life without ever seeing or smelling alcohol. It won’t kill me.” Tracing the rounded muscle, his voice softens further. “It’s not that big of a deal”

“But…” Gothmog tries, falling silent when Maeglin shakes his head.

“You know, I’ve even gone clubbing,” he says, giving Gothmog a crooked smile. “Seen some pretty wild raves.” He doesn’t think he’ll ever tell Gothmog what his trick is for surviving those nights. “University kids, they’re crazy.” A lot of things can be shut down if you know what to take.

“That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t–”

“Don’t you fucking start walking on eggshells around me, Lavalocks,” Maeglin says, his voice back to the annoyance he can’t quite shake, the lingering fear of the previous moments still haunting his mind. “I don’t want to see that beaten-up puppy look on your face again,” he adds, “and especially not without knowing what put it there in the first place.” 

Maeglin doesn’t think he’ll ever tell Gothmog in detail what went through his head during those weird moments. It’s better for both of them if Gothmog doesn’t know the precise nature of Maeglin’s eggshells.

And yet it bothers him a surprisingly high amount that he has no fucking idea what happened to Gothmog’s eggs. The feeling may need to be studied somewhere private, later.

Maeglin squeezes Gothmog’s shoulder, a serious look on his face, and the roughness of his words is only brought down a notch by the fingers that dive into the flaming hair, thumb tickling the shell of Gothmog’s ear. 

“I just…” Gothmog sighs, tilting his head a little to allow Maeglin more room, “I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable with me.” Turning his head, he presses a small kiss against Maeglin’s wrist. “Will you set the table?” 

He could plate the food up in the kitchen like last time, but frankly he feels a need to be alone for a moment, to shut the box of bad memories once more, grounding himself in the present. This evening has proven one thing with crystal bloody clarity, at least: Gothmog is not so over the past as he had believed… and Maeglin might have already made himself a permanent home in his heart, the removal of which would be complicated by barbs and hooks. 

Gothmog doesn’t want to think about that.

Better to stay in the soft space of new love, letting himself believe that it will all work out rather than look for portents of doom around every corner.

He has had enough of suffering. There is no reason to add to the burden before he must. 

It’s new, this thing, wanting to help somehow but not being wanted to, and Maeglin doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. “Yeah.” Maeglin pulls his hand away, slowly, affording a small smile though some of the ice still lingers, diminished only for the moment. 

He arranges the plates and cutlery as neatly as he can and fetches two more glasses for water, filling them from a pitcher.

_Hell, not like I have any say in this. I’m a mess._

He looks up at Gothmog who’s finishing up preparing their meal. Maeglin would’ve never believed – not in a million years – if he’d been told two months ago that he’s going to have a handsome rich man cooking him dinner in a penthouse, being all sweet and kind… And Maeglin can’t blame him for being secretive, when he’s got his own dusty skeletons in a closet.

_Talk about having two faces. I should go perform on the fucking Broadway._

Maeglin puts the breadbasket on the table, briefly rubbing his hands together before turning towards Gothmog, grinning at him. “Hey. Done. I’m hungry like a hyena.” 

“So you’d eat carrion?” Gothmog jokes, trying to bridge the lingering awkwardness with a touch a of humour. 

Maeglin wonders briefly if some of the things he’s had before would count as carrion but thinks stuff like that is better kept a joke. 

Putting the rice and the stir-fy down, Gothmog returns to the kitchen to remove the grilled chicken from the oven, setting the pan on a cutting board and grabbing a knife for slicing before he returns to the table. Setting the food down, he sighs. “No,” he murmurs, half to himself alone, “levity aside, I do need to know what your limits are in this area.”

Taking a small gulp of water to wet his throat, Maeglin wipes his lip with the edge of his thumb and dares a look at Gothmog. He’s so beautiful, even when he’s serious. Maybe _especially_ when he’s serious. Maeglin’s seen depictions of divines who might get close to Gothmog when his eyes are like this, and his mouth like that, and despite all the conflicting emotions tonight Maeglin would really like to kiss him breathless right now. 

“I’m not a heavy drinker, I think,” Gothmog adds, “but I do like a glass of wine with a meal, or a good snifter of whisky now and then.” 

“You do you.” Maeglin says, mindful of his tender muscles when he sits down, and leans over a little to help himself to the bounty. “I get that not everyone is like my father when it comes to booze.” The chicken is so tender and juicy that something in Maeglin wants to cry for it. “I don’t want you to change just to make me comfy. We all have our pleasures and vices.” He smiles at that, giving Gothmog a look that balances between fond and just a little wicked. “You know _I_ really like sex.”

At least he really likes it lately. He’d thought it was always something important to him, but everything in the past feels somehow paler compared to Gothmog, and maybe Maeglin would be right to think he’s another addiction to add to the list.

“I hadn’t noticed,” Gothmog deadpans, a smile breaking through his melancholy. “Though I do like _that_ , too.” His grin widens. “And you.” 

“And I like most things about you,” Maeglin flushes just a little at that, his eyes veering towards the familiar grain of the tabletop. “Just…” he murmurs, “you know, warn me.”  He shrugs, scooping up some of the perfectly seasoned veg. “The cat’s on the table already.” Chewing slowly, he swallows the food along with the small lump in his throat. “You didn’t laugh me out of the door that night, so… let’s just work around that.” 

“I can do that,” Gothmog nods, forking up a bite of chicken and chewing thoughtfully. “I-” But the phone rings, the tune he’s set specifically for maman, interrupting whatever he meant to say – which might be for the best. It’s an old Vanyarin love song - one she always hums when gardening - and he answers it like a pavlovian response. “ _Oui_ , _Maman_?” Holding up a finger to Maeglin, he focuses on the soft questions lobbed at him, his speech peppered with Vanyarin words and phrases. “ _Non_ , you know it is on Saturday, the Gala.” If only because he’s told her several times already, but he knows the topic is simply a pretext for the call. 

Maeglin – whose face had melted into a soft smile at the gentle way Gothmog responds to his mother despite the magnificently bad timing – perks up at that, stalling the fork that had been on its way to his mouth. _Gala?_  

“ _Oui_ ,” Gothmog smiles, “I am coming home weekend _after_ next.”

Maeglin watches Gothmog’s face carefully, then looks swiftly down as Gothmog gets up and wanders into the living room, his mother’s voice a muffled hum Maeglin can’t quite make into words. Gothmog’s voice, however, is as clear as water.

“Yes, _certainement_ , I am bringing Thuri - I picked up her dress already and –” 

Maeglin drops the fork with a clatter, the piece of chicken disintegrating across the space between his plate and the edge of the table. His blood runs colder than it should, for a heart that beats so fast – chancing a look at Gothmog in passing, Maeglin sees his profile, the concerned shift in his eyes as he glances at Maeglin. Maeglin reins himself in, carefully blanking out his face, and turns his attention towards his plate. 

What follows is a babble of liquid syllables that make little sense to Maeglin’s ears – probably Vanyarin – as Gothmog continues to pace.

“- _yes, I got a matching tie_!” 

Maeglin had let Thuri slip – waiting, hoping, that there was nothing, that he was looking at things the wrong way and there’s nothing like that there, that _for fucking once_ he could be enough for someone after all is said and done. Of course, it had been too much to hope for, and what Maeglin’s succeeded at here is simply scoring another record in self-denial, and _damn_ he should just stick to his own league.

He swallows a piece of chicken and drinks some water to force it down his dry, only somewhat cooperative throat, the soft words like poetry of which he can understand next to nothing filling his ears like water.

" _Oui, aussi une pochette_ ,” he adds. “ _Oui, bien sûr, mon costume est un Carnistir, Maman, coupé et ajusté parfaitement comme toujours_." 

_You’d think I’d never bought a suit or gone to a ball before_ , Gothmog thinks, shaking his head at the phone, a small smile playing around his mouth. Carnistir’s suits are never less than perfect, and he has no reason to doubt that winning streak.

He returns to the table, spearing a morsel of food and winking at Maeglin, holding up two fingers for patience as he listens to the rapidfire Vanyarin from the other end of the line. " _Bien sûr_ ,” he reassures, chasing a piece of vegetable around his plate with a smile,  “ _j'apporterai vos salutations à M. Lávar_."

And then Gothmog’s tone changes, the language with it, that sultry cadence of words that Maeglin recognises from the bedroom – though the effect is less like the usual bubbles of joy and more like balls of lead in his stomach. 

Gothmog fires off another few salvos, the language harsh-sounding if melodic, and Maeglin wonders what’s going on, watching him frown and run an irritable hand through his hair. And then he stills, whatever discussion he’s had with the other person sorted out, his voice returning to more familiar tones of fondness. 

“Aye, my love to you and Maman and everyone, and I’ll be up on the 25th.” Gothmog grins, listening to Thaurlach’s whiskey-smooth voice relaying his love to Maman who is probably hovering nearby, but thankfully Da rings off before she can come up with more inane questions about his future attire. 

_“Give my love to our Thuri-girl then, lad,_ ” the wryly amused voice – Da knows he’s saving Gothmog from a full interrogation – offers, “ _and I’ll see you Friday evening, the 24 th, aye?” _

“Aye,” Gothmog nods, defeated for the moment and amused by it. “I’ll see you then.” 

Just got call from Maman – expect interrogation re dress, soon.

Typing the brief message to Thuri, Gothmog returns to the dining area, putting the phone down beside him. Thuri will field such questions with far more ease – and she’ll help him recall all the people that Maman feels worthy of remembrance in her absence.

“Sorry about that – my mother sometimes seems convinced that I am still an awkward teenager,” he smiles, shrugging lightly. “Going up home in a few weeks – the hunting, ye ken?” Da had wanted to ensure he brought sensible clothes for being in the woods all day – and to ask his opinion on bringing young Shelob along for the hunt – which had at least saved him from half an hour of describing Thuri’s dress to his mother. Not that he’s actually seen the thing, given that it still hangs in the dark bag it had been wrapped in by the tailor, but Minette Cuvier is almost as stubborn as he is, so he might have ended up having to venture into the closet to open up the thing – and Thuri prefers to get his uncensored opinion on her gowns.

Maeglin nods woodenly, left doubtful as to whether _hunting_ was the only topic of conversation. He can’t think properly with those blue eyes on him. Thuri’s spectre suddenly looms large in the room. 

His phone vibrating saves him from saying anything, Gothmog waving off any concern as he scarfs down the almost-cold food left on his plate.

It’s Corben, but it’s also sweet release from this weird awkwardness and the thoughts playing around his mind. 

“I’m sorry to dine and dash, but work needs me,” he says, hearing the lie fall from his lips as easy as breathing. 

 

 


	7. Red Lace Reality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has art!  
> [Red Lace Reality by Dalandel](https://www.deviantart.com/dalandel/art/Red-Lace-Reality-Urban-Gentrification-812816938)

Gothmog eats Sunday brunch with Thuri – well, it’s more lunch than brunch, admittedly, by the time they get there – sipping mimosas as they peruse the online pages of glitzy magazines. Some pictures will be in print with tonight’s edition, but most of the glitzy magazines won’t be out for a few days and they usually have online sneak peeks featuring pictures of all the celebs that had attended the Noldor Gala and more than a few speculations – with a few facts scattered among them – alongside. 

It’s traditional, after the Noldor Gala – has been ever since Thuri was a student – gossipping about the ball and the people who were there, and looking over the photos that inevitably appear whenever Gothmog shows up at a formal event. He can’t hide from his name, after all, and although Thuri is quite famous in her own right, at these things many people still see her as her mother’s daughter. Admittedly, Gothmog would be surprised to learn that half of them even knew what metal _is_ , let alone like it enough to know what Thuri’s connection to the music industry is.

“I wonder how many ladies – and blokes, really – went to bed last night wondering what you wore under that,” Thuri smirks, a dark ruby nail tapping at the screen of his tablet. 

“Thankfully none of them _asked_ this year...” Gothmog rumbles, spearing a bite of pancake. 

“True…” Thuri teases, trying not to cackle at the memory of _last_ year, “perhaps you’re losing your touch – I remember that insistent lady at the Rose Ball who wanted some rather more… on-hands evidence…” She giggles, flushed with mirth and champagne, and Gothmog grins with her.

“Not one of my better moments,” he agrees, chuckling. At the time he’d been mostly mortified and incandescently enraged, but now the memory is more amusing than painful. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Idril so furious.” The tall blonde had looked much like he pictured an avenging Valkyrie, swooping down on her hapless – and admittedly rather intoxicated – victim without mercy. Gothmog had simply been glad to escape unmolested.

“Oh, this is a good one, look!” Thuri exclaims, abandoning the matter of his kilt and what lies beneath it to enlarge a new picture. 

It’s the two of them, dancing, Gothmog’s hand resting low on Thuri’s bare back, the bat wing tattoo on her shoulders on display, framed by red silk and dark lace. Even an untrained eye can tell that they have had years of practise together, the comfortably easy hold achieved with long hours of practise. 

“I _love_ my dress,” Thuri sighs, smiling happily. 

“Verra beautiful,” Gothmog concurs, nodding. 

Thuri beams at him. She had been very pleased with the way her deep red dress made her stand out from the crowd – and Gothmog admits, to himself at least, that he had been very glad to be accompanied by such a lovely lady. 

Last year, Arien had been on his arm, a shimmery golden sheath dress hiding most of her dark skin while revealing all of her tempting curves, and they’d –

Gothmog cuts off the thought there, swallowing a bite of orange. 

“Well, you also cut a nice figure,” Thuri adds, smiling, “there’s just something about a handsome man in a kilt…”

“Surely not enough to tempt _you_ ,” Gothmog teases, catching the grape she throws at him and stuffing it into his mouth with a wide grin. 

“No, I _know_ what you have under there,” Thuri shoots back, laughing, “and it’s a bit more than I enjoy finding in my bed… unless _I_ bring it there.” Giving him a saucy wink, she sips her drink like a proper lady, eyes creasing with mirth. 

“ _You_ are _terrible_ ,” he mock-scolds, swallowing his tea with the utmost dignity. “Not at all good for a man’s ego,” he adds, ruining the pose with the tiniest hint of a giggle. 

Thuri just grins, her mouth full of blueberries and yogurt. 

It’s nice to see her smile like this, the shadows of her break-up mourning fading from her eyes. It doesn’t mean he won’t want to strangle the bint if he sees her – what kind of name is Anathema, anyway? – but it soothes the part of his heart that bled for her.

“Ha, look at that one,” Gothmog laughs, pointing at the next slide and shaking off his melancholy memories. It’s still dancing, but _oh-hoo_. 

The shot was snapped at the exact moment Glorfindel dipped his not-a-date Erestor and it crackles with such tension that Gothmog wouldn’t have believed it _hadn’t_ ended in a kiss if he hadn’t been there to see it himself. He’d been shocked when he saw Glorfindel at the Ball with the dapper dark-haired man on his arm, but Glorfindel had informed them _several_ times that it was _not_ a date. They had both pretended to believe the guy whose heart-eyes couldn’t have been more obvious, but the picture does not lie.

“If that bloke is going to remain faithful to his gf, I’m a fish,” Thuri remarks dryly. “He’s as besotted as Glorfindel – and that’s saying something.”

“Wel, you _are_ a Pisces,” Gothmog grins, scratching a spot in his beard, “but I’ll not take that bet, regardless.” Glorfindel isn’t the home-wrecking type, but the flesh is weak, he knows, and if someone – _Maeglin_ – looked at _him_ the way Erestor is looking at Glorfindel, he would be sorely tempted to seek out the nearest bit of privacy he could find for a bit of private ‘dancing’.

He idly wonders if he’ll be dipping Maeglin like that some day, segueing into a pleasing fantasy of Maeglin wearing a sharply cut suit showing off his long limbs and hugging his perfect arse. His hair would be longer, possibly, and tied back in a bow Gothmog’s fingers would itch to undo. 

Smiling to himself, he is brought out of the small daydream by the incredulous splutter Thuri makes when she clicks up the next picture.

 

* * *

“I hope you aren’t staying,” Maeglin says, closing the door behind Corben, though he smiles and shakes his head fondly at his back, following him into the kitchen. “It’s not like I have time to entertain you without notice whenever you want.”

“You’re awfully busy lately,” Corben comments, throwing Maeglin a sideways glance as he unpacks groceries on the kitchen counter. It’s a good haul – crisp bread in a paper bag, milk, a jar of instant coffee… “One might think you’re trying to forget all about li’l ol’ Corben.”

…cheese, a box of green grapes, tuna paste…

“What the… Dude, are you moving in here?” Maeglin crosses his arms over his chest, nodding towards the counter. It’s not new that Corben brings him food – it happens almost as often as him eating Maeglin’s fridge empty – but this is suspiciously generous.

“Might need a place to crash tonight,” Corben says, shrugging, the leather of his pristine jacket creaking with the gesture. Then he flashes a smile and starts to stack the groceries on the mostly empty shelves. 

Maeglin saves the bread and the coffee from the fridge, setting them on the counter, next to a pile of art mags he’d salvaged from the recycling centre. “You’re in trouble.” He frowns at Corben’s deceptively innocent expression. “You know what I think of you staying here when you’re fucked.”

“I’m not fucked!” Corben protests. 

Maeglin isn’t buying it – he’s spent too many years with Corben in his life, after all; he knows the look he gets when he’s scheming for a payday. “You’ve a new fancy jacket,” he points out. “I like it.”

“Oh yeah? I’ll get you one.” Corben smiles at that, winks a grey eye. “Just let me sleep here tonight.” 

“No.”

Corben sighs, his jaw working around itself until it clicks loud enough for Maeglin to hear. “I’ve got money in this.” He slaps the folded newspaper on the windowsill and crumbles the plastic bag into a small ball he then tosses over Maeglin’s shoulder. 

Maeglin hears it land on the floor and the tell-tale crackle as it tries to regain its form, but he keeps his eyes on Corben. “Well _I_ don’t.” He shrugs, staring at him until he blinks and lets his gaze drop, leaning against the counter. The chain connecting his keys to his beltloop rattles against the flaking veneer. Fuck if he’s going to let Corben confuse him when he’s sober. 

“Don’t be selfish, Maeglin,” Corben replies, “I’m not putting you in danger.”

“Are you going to stash anything here without telling me?” Maeglin asks, the space between his brows wrinkling. _Again_ , he leaves unsaid.

Corben’s mouth thins for a moment, then he dons an apologetic smile. “I need a place for my stuff for one night. I promise it’ll be gone by tomorrow. Even a dog couldn’t smell it.”

Maeglin’s tempted to say Corben knows better than that, but he only makes a small noise of annoyance and walks into the room that doubles as his living- and bedroom, flopping down on the bed. Corben follows him, seating himself on the rickety chair in front of the small desk where Maeglin’s broken laptop lies under a thin film of dust. Corben draws a misshapen heart on the cover, then turns to look at Maeglin once more, one brow raised.

“I’ll buy you a new laptop.”

“You’re not going to buy me a fucking laptop.”

“A good one.”

“…How much money are you expecting to get?” Maeglin can’t help the curiosity tickling him at that – usually Corben’s businesses are on the small side. He’s the biggest fish in a small pond, but there are circles he keeps away from. Slippery like an eel, that’s Corben to a tee, Maeglin knows, quietly hoping he’ll be able to slither away from any trouble following him back home, at the very least.

He can’t afford to move.

Corben shrugs – the jacket whines. “Fifty grand, plus minus. After taxes.”

Maeglin blinks at him, then lets out a short laugh and plucks his pillow from the other end, busying his fingers in the seam to give his hands something to do. “You want to bring that much… whatever it is… here?”

“It’s –”

“No, don’t tell me.”

“Well yeah. Good stuff. I’ll buy you a laptop and a jacket, alright?”

Maeglin sighs at that, defeated. “I won’t be here to babysit you tonight.”

Corben’s eyebrows rise in an almost comical manner – then he sticks his hand into his pocket and fishes out a pack of cigarettes.

“Go to the window if you want to smoke. I’ve got laundry drying.”

“If you think this shithole doesn’t smell already, I’ve got news for you pal,” Corben says, lighting his fag long before he makes it to the kitchen window and fights it open, sticking the upper half of his body outside. He looks funny like this, arse raised in an offering. If Maeglin was in a better mood, he’d sneak up behind him and smack it.

“Thinking of all the powder your nose must be lined with, I don’t give much for your opinion on that,” Maeglin mutters – Corben hears, offers a half-hearted laugh.

“I know where you put the spare key,” he points out. “I’ll let myself in. I’ll let myself out,” he adds, sounding so reasonable it’s almost like he’s doing _Maeglin_ a favour.  “Yeah? You can go do your thing.” Corben waves the hand holding the fag airily towards the city. “It’s probably more fun than waiting here with me anyway.”

“Why don’t you speak a little louder so everyone hears?” Maeglin snarks.

“You’re really fucking uptight,” Corben informs him, pulling himself back in – the smoke wafts around his head, and Maeglin figures it’s no use to complain. Corben’s attention span is shorter than his track record for being clean. 

Maeglin doesn’t remember him ever even trying.

“Doesn’t your sugar daddy sweeten you up enough?” he adds, grinning like he’s a grand comedian.

Ha- _fucking_ -ha. Maeglin grinds his teeth. He’s barely said anything the past week, but Corben’s got eyes all around, and someone has possibly seen him in Gothmog’s fancy car. “You sure you want to start that shit today?” he asks, trying to keep his cool and doubly annoyed that he’s failing. “You may not be welcome tonight after all.”

Corben gives Maeglin an odd look, takes one more drag of smoke before tossing the butt out of the window. “Have to go now anyway. Will be back around five. Ish.”

Maeglin drapes his arms around the pillow, closing his eyes and sighing into it – then something hits him in the head, falling on the bed with a flapping sound.

“Read the paper.” Corben smiles at him on his way out, fingers working a new key into his key ring. “You could do with some gossip,” Corben laughs, “less time to dwell in your crap.”

Maeglin mentally reminds himself to demand it back later, scowling at Corben’s back, though he picks up the newspaper when he hears the door click shut.

It’s one of those cheap yellow tabloids called The Morning Star, and Maeglin turns the pages with less than mild interest. He doesn’t need to know who was seen where, or who gave a shitty tip in a restaurant, or who just got divorced.

The charity ball at the university. Maeglin had forgotten all about it – not that he’d paid much attention, really; not a lot of students have the dough to attend, after all… and he’s way too allergic to shit like that, regardless.

Maeglin’s eyes land on a familiar flame-coloured mane whose lustre even the dull ink can’t fully steal. For a fraction of a second his lips twist into a smile, and then his gaze slides to Gothmog’s left where a gown of red clings to his side, painstakingly fastened over a pale woman with black hair. Gothmog’s hand looks gigantic laid over her waist – he’s leaning towards the woman with an amused smile on his face, and while Maeglin can’t quite see her face, he imagines she’s either about to kiss his cheek or whisper something sweet into his ear.

Swiftly, Maeglin pushes the magazine away, the cheap paper bearing the damp marks of his fingertips.

_No._

He leans over the paper once more, heart in his throat. 

Her hair could be brown, for what Maeglin sees, or black. The print is too shitty quality to tell, really. She could be butt-ugly, he can’t really determine.

But hell, she can’t be Gothmog’s sister, if he has one. He wouldn’t hold a sister like that.

And then… Gothmog never mentioned he went to _the_ Ball. _The Noldor_ fucking _Gala_ . ‘Charity function’, he’d called it, promising to make up for it tonight. _Charity function_.

Maeglin blinks at the picture, feeling his heart thud away at his ribs, disappointed and feeling all the more fragile for it.

 _Who are you?_ he asks the Woman in Red.

His mind turns to the bit of red lace he’s stashed in his drawer. A literal fucking red flag if Maeglin ever knew one. The phone call plays through his head, word by word.

_…Thuri._

__

* * *

“What is it this time?” Gothmog chuckles goodnaturedly, slathering his pancake in syrup and piling a cup of blueberries on top. If not for the sanctity of post-Ball brunch, he’d be fingering his phone, but the itch to text Maeglin the selfie he snapped when he was getting ready last night will simply have to wait. 

Uncustomarily silent, Thuri simply pushes the tablet towards him, her mouth a thin line of disapproval. Gothmog smirks; he knows her well enough to see the grin waiting to break free beneath her displeasure. Pointedly she turns her attention to cutting up her own pancake in dainty bites.

Gothmog bursts into laughter. It’s better than shouting, at least, which he might have done if he had been five years younger. Thuri’s chortling joins him, tears streaming down her face as she raises her mimosa. 

“A toast,” she proclaims, hardly able to get the words out for laughing, “To the brave men and women of The Evening Star – may they some day figure out how investigative journalism is supposed to be conducted.” It’s not the first time they see such speculations in print, but it never stops being hilarious. 

“To The Evening Star,” Gothmog echoes, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, “Some day they’ll be able to discern true facts from imagination. Some day, they will report something with actual verisimilitude… but it is not this day.” 

 

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Maeglin’s been to the restaurant downstairs to buy cigarettes and a box of hot rice, and now he’s eating it mechanically with a slice of bread splattered with an angry splotch of tuna paste. It doesn’t taste like anything – anything other than quiet, seething rage, that is.

He gives up half way into it, dropping the bread on top of the rice and stuffing it into the fridge, right between the cheese and the grapes. Annoyed and stressed to void and back, he leaves his apartment and clambers the stairs up to the rooftop to smoke, burning through three before returning to his flat no less agitated.

He doesn’t know whether he wants to shout or cry. It stays inside, a bubble of poison, and refuses to leave – refusing to shrink, and refusing to grow. Maeglin feels like he’s somehow obtained a new organ in a previously unoccupied space. Or maybe that’s just bile – literal, and figurative.

_I almost let myself believe in you._

_I believed in you._

He’s a stupid bloody fool and realising that hurts way too much than it ought to after all this time. He’d told himself his one gut feeling was wrong and the other right, and of course it had thrown him off the saddle in the middle of a fucking highway.

At least, if he’d been dumped, he could put on a sad song and cry for a while, and then go beat a punching bag while listening to something aggressive enough to send his synapses into overdrive.

But he hasn’t been dumped. Just… no, he hasn’t been cheated on, either, has he? He just… _feels cheated_.

 _A charity function_ , Gothmog had said. His call with his mother had told Maeglin more, no matter the language barrier.

To be fucking fair, Gothmog could have been honest about _that_ , at least. Maeglin frowns, throwing himself down onto his back on the rumpled bed – something digs into his back and he hisses with annoyance while digging beneath himself, fishing his phone out from between the folds of his duvet.

There’s a message from Gothmog – it takes Maeglin a while to tap it open, unnamed fear gripping his insides.

Gothmog had promised to message him, and at least he has now done that. Not a word of the ball though, of course not. Maeglin wonders if he should ask, but another half of him wonders if Gothmog will tell him if he just keeps his quiet. Another matter is whether Maeglin can keep his silence, never mind the massive knot of irritation living somewhere beneath his sternum.

Gods, he kind of wants to see Gothmog. Wants him to admit it. Wants him to deny it. Wants to tell him to fuck off. Wants to tell him to apologise.

_For fucking what? What does he owe me anyway?_

Maeglin lets the phone drop onto his chest and closes his eyes, letting out a shaky breath.

The phone buzzes against the bone of his breast. Another message.

This one’s from Maeglin’s boss. One of the dining room staff is down with a stomach bug, and they need a busboy on short notice.

_Godsend._

It’s not Maeglin’s favourite thing to do – most of his colleagues are ten years his junior and he’s getting amused looks for doing the crappiest, lowest paid job in the restaurant, but it’s still money he could use.

Even better, it’s an excuse which really isn’t even an excuse. Swiftly he types an _ok_ and goes back to his received messages. The sick feeling doesn’t go away, doesn’t leave Maeglin’s gut even after he’s pressed _send_.

* * *

 

  


When his phone pings for message, Gothmog picks it up with a smile that falters as he reads the short terse words, distantly wondering at the lack of Maeglin’s usual emojis. In his lap, Patches meows, tiny head butting against his hand to make him continue his interrupted petting. 

“Bad news, darling?” Maman asks softly, topping up his tea. 

Gothmog shrugs. “Just some plans that fell through, Maman… perhaps I _will_ stay for dinner after all.” Disappointment twists his stomach for a moment; he had been looking forward to seeing Maeglin, and the short text feels like a brush-off, not like Maeglin _wants_ to see him but _can’t_ , and more like he’s simply not in the mood to come up with an excuse to say no. 

“Wonderful, chérie,” Maman smiles, the ivory bangles on her wrist clicking softly against each other, “though I am sorry your plans were a … how-you-say… bust. It ‘as been too long since you have supped with us.” 

Gothmog smiles apologetically. He knows he has been too busy to make the trip home lately – he’d even had wee Shelob drop Patches off when she went home for the weekend, giving her the train fare each way as a reward. Of course, Maeglin’s sudden appearance in his life hasn’t made him any _less_ busy, but he suddenly realises that he’s missed Maman’s soft Vanyarin lilt and the scent of her perfume more than he had expected. 

Patches purrs softly, her warm weight settling against him as she falls asleep, one of his hands still meditatively carding through her fur as he sips his tea and outlines his latest construction prospect for his mother. Minette Balrogath doesn’t care much for the profession he has chosen, but she has good insight in human behaviours and Gothmog appreciates her advice and calm support as much now as he did when he was 11 and chosen for his first solo dance at Nessa Academy. 

It’s late when he gets into the car, full of good food and familiar company – Da even made him help out with one of the fence posts and they had a good hour of silent companionable work together to ensure that the cattle could not escape their pasture – and Gothmog’s fingers linger over the call button, wanting to hear Maeglin’s crisp clipped tones wish him goodnight. Instead, he realises that he doesn’t actually know what Maeglin working entails – given his studies it’s probably some sort of service industry gig – and no idea if he’s off the clock yet or not. With a sigh he types out a quick text before turning the car down the long drive, the lamps Maman has installed along the drive illuminating the brilliant riot of autumn colours that the trees will soon shed.

There is no reply when he pulls into his parking spot, nor does one arrive before he is sound asleep in the bed that suddenly seems awfully big without company.

 

* * *

 

Maeglin returns home in the early hours of the morning, before daylight has the chance to break out over the jagged city skyline.

Feeling exhausted yet nervous, he turns the key in the lock, wondering why Corben hasn’t bothered to message him during the evening he’s had Maeglin’s apartment all to himself. That made him do an extra walk around the block and even peer into a couple of dumpsters along the way, almost expecting to find something that would turn his stomach over. He’d seen nothing out of ordinary and grown richer only by a red bleeding cut on his hand after managing to annoy a giant red tomcat in his gruesome search for tattooed body parts.

Still, Maeglin’s wrapped a keychain around his fist when he slithers in, feeling like he’s breaking into his own home.

It’s dark, but Maeglin can make out Corben’s shape on the bed, wild hair sticking up in all directions on Maeglin’s pillow. Concerned, he goes to him, puts his hand in front of his friend’s mouth to feel the warm huff of air – then tries around the bedclothes and Corben’s body for anything sticky, though his nose can’t really pick up anything other than sweat and the ever-present tang of mould all about the room.

“Maeglin?” Corben murmurs, catching Maeglin’s wrist with fumbling fingers. His eyes slowly blink open in the low light. “Welcome home, honey.”

Maeglin pulls his hand away from the clammy grasp and straightens himself, shrugging out of his jacket and then his work uniform, wordlessly finger-combing the gel-flattened hair free from his scalp and sauntering off to the bathroom. He feels sticky, like the smell of the deep-fat fryer has violated every fucking pore in his skin, and despite being fatigued to void and back gives himself a good scrub, turning the water as hot as it’ll go, not surprised when it stays above lukewarm for less than two minutes.

When Maeglin returns, feeling a little more like himself, Corben’s sitting up on the bed, divesting himself of his clothes. In the yellow light of the bathroom, his eyes are a greener hue, the mossy shade enhanced by the bloodshot whites.

Maeglin stares at him, mechanically moving the toothbrush in his mouth and stopping to utter “so how did it go?” through the accumulating mass of foam.

Corben shrugs, but then leans down and pulls a case from under the bed, the chrome in the corners glinting mischievously. Maeglin raises a brow at him, suspicious, yet touched by curiosity steps forward and crouches down as Corben flips the lid open, showing Maeglin neat stacks of twenties and fifties.

“That’s more than fifty,” Maeglin says, cupping his mouth when the foam threatens to burst out. Excusing himself, he goes back into the bathroom and spits into the sink, rinsing the brush and dropping it in the chipped glass by the edge of the counter.

“Two hundred fifty,” Corben says, a smile tilting his lips when Maeglin comes back.

“Damn.”

“Yeah. Don’t get excited, will have to pay some debts.” Corben closes the lid and kicks the case back under the bed. “But even that feels kind of nice – paying dirty money off with dirty money.”

“That’s what dirty money is good for, really.” Maeglin knees Corben aside on the bed and then slips in, setting an alarm a little later than he usually does for Monday mornings. The spot Corben had vacated for him is warm, and Maeglin thinks falling asleep shouldn’t be as hard as it proves to be thirty minutes later when the phone is still in his hand, Gothmog’s good night wishes painted on the screen right in front of his eyes. He stares at it, complex feelings fighting war inside him while Corben softly snores beside him – it’s now 6:30 AM and Maeglin thinks Gothmog’s probably awake by now, or will soon be, and the urge to type him a _good morning_ is nearly overwhelming. 

Maeglin puts the phone away and turns around to drop down onto his belly, closing his eyes. A moment later he opens them again and gets up, almost losing his balance when his foot hits Corben’s boot, forgotten beside the bed. Cursing inward, he goes to the door and connects the safety chains, feeling a little calmer with the knowledge they’ll hold long enough to give them a fighting – or escaping – chance.

He knows where the knife is, but just in case he slips the blade unsheathed between the mattress and the bedframe, touching the handle several times just to make sure he can pull it out fast enough.

Maeglin trusts Corben to be unpredictable – but he knows the type of people Corben bargains with well enough to expect the worst from them.

 

* * *

When he wakes up, the small messaging symbol on his phone shows him one new text, and Gothmog feels the smile form on his face, Patches purring lightly from her perch on his chest, blue eyes hidden behind dark and orange fur. 

“Morning, Beautiful,” he murmurs, stroking her small back with one hand and fingering the phone alive.

The text is from Glorfindel, begging for a round of sparring after work.

Gothmog tries not to feel disappointed, looking at the message history for Maeglin and feeling his heart sink a little at the small tick that means his last text was read but never answered. 

With a sigh, he drops the phone, spending a few minutes staring at nothing while Patches wakes beneath his fingers. 

 

He can’t wallow – and he knows he’s wallowing, feeling slighted by Maeglin’s lack of response – in bed all day, of course, there are meetings to prep for, projects to go over with the architects and the engineers and the hopefully future investors. Gothmog pushes the nagging thought of Maeglin out of his head as he gets into his shower… or pretends to, at least. 

 

* * *

The pillow is damp beneath his face, and not only with sweat.

 _Crying won’t help, boy_.

Maeglin bites it, cotton whining between his bloodied teeth. He hurts all over, the ache spreading from his battered limbs, reaching his fragile core like the quick stab of a blade carving into flesh.

He feels like he’s already in pieces. That leg can’t be attached to him. This hand can’t be his – it’s too white and fragile and bony. His head is rolling on the pillow too loosely, like his teeth are the only thing keeping it there. His sanity is in shambles all around him, pain not enough to keep him together, focused.

It never is, but each sharp and blunt hit puts him back into himself for one blinding second, drowning his senses with a scream that isn’t his own.

He thinks of her and doesn’t scream. He doesn’t cry, though he’s torn between the muteness of his own cursed reality and the horrible shrieking of his memory. In a way they cancel each other out – no one can take Maeglin’s past from him, and it gives him an anchor with a chain as thick as his muddied lifeline, dragged through the rocky bottom. It grants an edge to his weakness, puts teeth into his mouth and grows claws on his fingers though he doesn’t put them to use, merely clings to the wave crest he expects to hit the jagged rocks of the shore any moment, _any moment now_...

_A rattling sound, a wooden screak. Glass bottles tinkling._

Maeglin opens his eyes, sees the empty space beside him – draws in a ragged breath of mint, pot and grease until his lungs burn with it, until his body comes alive with slow, tingling panic.

Floorboards – he recognises them, the one that meows like a cat and the one that complains like a nylon rope drawn too tight, the one that makes a noise only when you lift your foot –

_The knife._

Just as he remembers it, he turns, body taut with nerves and breath locked inside him, adrenaline speaking for him like it did when he saved himself for the first time, and opened that heavy black door he’s been hoping to close ever since…

The room is empty – the safety chains dangle against the chipped paint, and Maeglin’s breath catches with horror at the sight of them.

 _Rattle, rattle, click._ The mail slot yawns open, heaving against its rusty hinges. Maeglin stares at it, unmoving, poised naked with the knife in his hand.

_Clang._

On the floor in front of the door lies a single, unobtrusive key.

  
 

* * *

Gothmog has dressed sharply, looking entirely professional in his dark rust trousers and the blue plaidweave jacket that Thuri told him matches his eyes, the leather satchel containing his papers and laptop slung over one shoulder as he walks into the office of Doriath Invest. Greeting the deceptively kind Lady Melian – it is said that Elu Thingol is the Managing Director of Doriath Invest, but everyone knows Lady Melian is the true decision-maker when it comes to investing the fond’s vast reserves of capital – with a kiss on the cheek, Gothmog feels himself shrug off anything beyond the proposal he wants to pitch. Doriath Invast has backed him before, of course, but it’s always nerve-wracking to present one of his babies to the people whose money is going to make dreams and drawings a reality. 

“So lovely to see you again, Mr Balrogath,” Elu Thingol says, standing to shake his hand before gesturing to the remarkably beautiful woman seated beside him. “Our daughter, Luthien,” he offers, “perhaps you’ve met.”

Gothmog manages not to stare, automatically bending to press a kiss to Lúthien’s knuckles. “I believe I saw you at the Noldor Gala,” he remarks, keeping his face a calm mask, though Luthien’ light start does not go unnoticed. “Though we were not formally introduced. A pleasure to meet you, Ms Menegroth.” He _had_ seen her, Gothmog’s sure, disappearing into the gents’ with a man whose beard was even wilder than his own and by the looks of them well on the way to exploring at least a few of the meanings of the phrase ‘throes of passion’. 

“The pleasure is all mine,” Lúthien replies, her cool grey eyes studying him keenly, only the slight tension of her mouth giving away her agitation. Gothmog gives her a friendly smile and nods. He has no intention of revealing her romantic entanglements to her stern and overprotective father, after all. 

“Well, then,” Lady Melian breezes in, taking the seat to the right of her husband, “tell us about this new project of yours.”

“As you wish, Lady Melian,” Gothmog nods, handing each of them a small folder with the outline of the proposal as he fiddles with his laptop. The small animated film of the possible future of one of Tirion’s most run-down areas plays as he speaks, lines he’s practised for weeks with Thuri as his stand-in audience. “Welcome to the new Erebrhaen – Tirion’s newest urban renovation effort.”

 

“Great success!” Gothmog crows over the phone, hardly deterred by the clanging of instruments being tuned in the background as Thuri squeals with joy that he knows is probably only heightened by the fact that she won’t have to rehearse his proposal with him another fifty times over.

“We should celebrate!” she calls back, moving away from the din and the shouts of congrats that Gothmog can vaguely make out in the background. “We’re here til.... six, I reckon – Melkor wants to run through the opening of a new thing, see how it flows – but you can come by and hang out if you’re not busy till then. The boys’ll want to tease you, too.”

Gothmog laughs. 

Only Thuri can get away with referring to the members of Angband as ‘the boys’ – particularly Orc, whose real name no one actually knows – and it never ceases to amuse him. 

“Aye, maybe I will – if you’re very good I’ll bring round snacks, too,” he teases, pushing open the door of Miss Bella’s. 

He has definitely earned one of her buttery croissants and a cup of something warm and sweet.

 

Texting Maeglin again as he walks back towards his car, stomach warmed by success and hot chocolate both, Gothmog smiles to himself. Maeglin does not respond to the offer of joining them, so when Gothmog ducks into his favourite Umbarian restaurant, he simply orders for the five of them, knowing well enough what dishes will make each of them smile.

The smell makes his mouth water as he drives towards the rehearsal space Mairon owns in the appropriately industrial part of town. 

 

* * *

Maeglin’s never met a person who likes Mondays. Mondays belong to the Void.

Mondays with a lab session need to be killed with fire and then brought back just to be torched to Void once more.

Maeglin wakes up groggy, only somewhat managing his bare minimum morning routine. He forgets his keys on the night desk – a grand mistake, considering the magazine staring at him from the floor beside the bed when he returns for them.

He kicks at the magazine, paper rasping under his shoe as the photos of glorious ballgowns disappear into the treasury of vintage dust bunnies.

 

If only that had been the end of it.

Hoping some lab work would get his head out of the dark cloud he’s lost himself in, Maeglin soon realises that the Noldor Gala is _the_ topic of conversation on campus. When the third person mentions the gala in _five bloody minutes_ , the slide he’d been trying to insert under the clips of his microscope breaks with a sharp crack, earning him too much attention from the class and a bleeding thumb. 

Sucking on the wounded digit, he scowls at the profoundly disappointed look aimed in his direction from his assigned partner. 

Who then pretends to not to hear him talk for the rest of the session, a superior smirk on his face as he clicks a new slide in place and adjusts the eyepieces.

Not that Maeglin gives a shit.

Not that he gives any fucks at all.

_None._

When his phone beeps with a text message, Maeglin curses that one skipped beat of his heart to the Void with all the Mondays, past and future. 

  


* * *

“I come bearing gifts!” Gothmog calls out as he walks in, holding up the bags of spicy noodles, curries, soups, and mouth-wateringly delicious chili. Orc’s scarred face – sans make-up today – lights up in a broad grin, his deft fingers twirling a quick drum roll that makes Mairon’s head snap up in irritation at the interruption of his perfect accords. He is only slightly mollified by the appearance of a box of his favourite green curry, sniffing haughtily at Gothmog before digging in with as much gusto – if somewhat more poise and grace of motion – as Orc who is devouring his favourite shrimp wok.

“You are forgiven,” Melkor says, playing a long note that seems to vibrate in Gothmog’s teeth even after he stops. He grins and puts the instrument carefully back on its stand, placed exactly where it needs to be so Melkor won’t fumble. His wrap-around shades are too dark to make out the mischievous twinkle in his pale eyes, but Gothmog returns the grin and sets the box of fried beef and noodles next to Mairon for him. 

“You love me, really,” he teases, stuffing a spring roll in his own mouth. Melkor blows him an ironic kiss, accepting his chopsticks from Mairon. 

“Our unofficial sixth member,” Thuri teases next to him, laughing brightly at Orc trying to steal a baby carrot from her dish and inciting a minor chopstick war, “without whom we’d all perish to starvation and cold.” Adding a dramatic pretend swoon onto his shoulder, Thuri sneaks a peck at his cheek that distracts him long enough for her to steal one of the cherry tomatoes they always seem to put in his order even though he specifically asks them not to. “Though I’m still not marrying you.”

“Ew,” Mairon says, pursing his delicate lips in distaste, “that’d be like… I don’t know, incestuous or something.” He looks vaguely ill at the thought and Gothmog can’t help but laugh. 

“Breaking my heart after I so selflessly bring you dinner?! What will the newspapers say!” he exclaims theatrically, giving Thuringwethil his best wounded puppy look. He manages to keep the expression for a few moments, but it cracks into loud guffaws when Thuri smacks his arm, sticking out her tongue at him. 

“You think you’re so funny,” she grumbles, stealing another tomato, but her tone is fond and she nudges his shoulder with a small playful smile. 

“ _I_ ,” Gothmog declares imperiously, pressing his hand to his chest in mock outrage, “am _hilarious_ , I’ll have you know.” 

“I don’t know, Mairon,” Melkor offers, a devilish grin playing around his mouth, “I seem to recall you describing that Gala picture as ‘bloody adorable’ over breakfast the other day…” Waving airily at his love/roommate/best friend, he continues, “I’m certain you’d be first in line to teach any mini-Balrogs how to shred a solo…” 

Orc, with his impeccable comedic timing, responds with a mocking drumroll with his chopsticks while Mairon, Thuri, and Gothmog all groan. Melkor’s smirk only grows.

“I thought we agreed never to speak of that ‘If we’re old and still single and need to spawn’-plan?!?” Thuri hisses, reaching out to flick Melkor’s nose with the clean end of her chopstick. “I haven’t had near enough booze to make playing with dick like that – no offense, Momo, I love you – seem in _any_ way appealing.” 

“None taken,” Gothmog assures her, trying to banish the images in his head. Thuri is a stunningly gorgeous woman, but she’s also the closest thing he’s got to a sibling and while he knows she’s attractive she’s never done a thing for his libido. “I still say that in that hypothetical situation we’d go to a clinic before making any attempt at intercourse.” He’s not even sure pretending the black hair belongs to Maeglin would help him maintain an erection long enough to do the deed.

“Agreed,” Thuri nods, relieved, “besides, we all know that the person most likely to have offspring is Orc and his sweet Finduilas…” 

“In Spring, actually,” Orc rasps out, for once using the little voice the fire left him with to form words rather than using his instruments to speak for him. 

“Wait, _what?!”_ Thuri screeches, jumping up from her seat to stare at him. 

Orc nods, smiling shyly at his food. 

“Congratulations, my friend!” Gothmog booms, clapping a hand on Orc’s shoulder with a bit more force than he intended in the excitement, giving Orc a sheepish smile in apology when he winces. Across from them, Mairon seems to be frozen for a moment, before a wide smile spreads on his face, reaching across the table to give Orc’s scarred hand a squeeze. 

“Felicitations,” he offers, elbowing the still-frozen Melkor who nods along woodenly. 

Thuri is screeching something incoherent, seemingly torn between hugging Orc and texting someone – probably Finduilas – her phone dangling haphazardly from her fingers when she flings herself at Orc. 

“I am pleased for you,” Melkor finally murmurs, “I know you’ve been trying for a long time.” Gothmog thinks that if his eyes were visible they’d be filled with tears; Melkor is arguably the closest of all of them to Orc, even if the reason for their odd friendship has never been shared with the rest of them. 

Orc’s grin stretches from ear to ear and the rest of them have to join in Thuri’s enthusiastic but now silent hug, leaving their food thoughtlessly abandoned on the table. 

 

Even as he drives towards the gym where Glorfindel is waiting for a fight that seems to be as much a punishment for himself as it is a spar, Gothmog can’t wipe the happiness off his face, shooting a quick text to Maeglin. 

Today has been great, and even though he’ll need to be up early to catch his train in the morning, tomorrow will probably be just as good.


	8. Technicolor Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've added in some of Dalandel's artworks for these chapters and you should go have a look ;)

There are books around Maeglin’s small flat that people who gain entry always seem surprised to find; he doesn’t look like much of a reader. And yet there are books scattered across the place – he hasn’t the space for a proper bookshelf, so there are books in the wardrobe, tucked in plastic bags under the racks, a teetering pile beside the sofa and one supporting the leg of a rickety desk. School library ones are handled with more care, though by now there’s a ring from Corben’s coffee mug stamped on an open page of a geography book he’d loaned for an essay he’d forgotten to hand over.

He actually has read them all, no matter how disbelieving those guests would be to hear it. 

He blames that on his mother, who kindled the reader in him early, and Turgon’s library which fanned the flame – and on an old friend who introduced him to books he’d never have picked himself.

That was the beginning of his hoarding of classics, mostly scavenged from recycling centres – and the genres prove an eclectic mix of current and classic, determined mainly by whatever was available at the time. He’s fond of them all; the weathered paperbacks as well as the hardbacks with their glossy covers familiar friends. He has a good copy of Bram Stoker’s _Dracula_ , Melville’s _Moby Dick_ , and even a dog-eared _Pride and Prejudice_ ; that one has underlinings and annotations in the margins and he rereads it every now and again to the memory of a cosy coffee shop and lively discussions. 

Maeglin doesn’t always see the books – Corben never seems to, at all – but when he moves one to his bag in preparation for tomorrow’s classes it reveals the one that he has been actively avoiding looking at since the first day of term. 

Almost in spite of himself, Maeglin picks it up, the feel of it familiar, the title a jolt of emotion he can’t quite name. _Anthology of Grief_ , it’s called, and the flyleaf has no author’s portrait but the nome de plume of Victor Summers written in fancy calligraphy and a notice that the collection of poems won the Lilírë Poetry Grant.

It’s Wednesday. He used to have a place to go on Wednesday nights, filled with books and intelligent conversation that reminded him of the best parts of living with Turgon, Erestor’s soft baritone guiding the discussion of whatever reading had been assigned that week.

Part of him wants to go, wants to tuck the book into his bag and chase the feeling of the coffee shop… but he’s due at work tonight, and Marie won’t appreciate him bailing out on short notice.

A look at his phone tells Maeglin it’s too late now, anyway – an almost soothing thought, though the old pain doesn’t go anywhere. He sighs to himself, opening the book with slow, gentle fingers.

It’s still there, familiar cursive letters he’s studied so long – there’s a small splotch where the fountain pen dripped by one of the s’es – he can see them even with his eyes closed.

_For my dearest Lómion,_

_I wrote this some years ago, after the death of my parents, and found much solace in the words herein... May it bring you the same comfort on dark nights._

_My best wishes,_

_Erestor Cummings, aka Victor Summers_

He wants to go… but they didn’t part on the best possible terms. In fact, they parted on the worst possible terms.

You can’t really part on the best possible terms after forcibly snogging someone without their fucking consent.

Maeglin’s unsure if he should call what he did an impulse, though. It had festered in his mind a long time, before, anyway – to kiss those pretty lips while putting a solid ten digits into that thick black hair. It feels faraway now, like a dream from childhood, indulging a version of him that is no more.

He’d thrown away Erestor for reasons that don’t even exist anymore. He looks back and sees that once upon a time he had all he could have hoped for, but his fickle self had fucked it up for a chance at something else that wouldn’t have worked.

_Things not working is a very recurring theme in my life._

Regardless, doing shit like that makes participating in a book club more of an exercise of awkwardness than sophistication.

And Maeglin could really do with a little less awkwardness lately, though the yearning is surprisingly strong now that he’s holding the proof of their friendship in his hands. Memory, at least, you can’t take away, even if its tail-end stings, spoiled by intoxicated crap.

He takes the flyer he’d picked up from the university notice board and stuffs it between the pages, closing the book on it and hiding the small tome under a pile of paper, dust clouding the air as he shuffles the stack to rearrange it somewhat neatly.

In a better world, he’d get out of the door and rush a little bit and then apologise for being late, participate and smile and be a good boy who doesn’t ruin people’s lives on daily basis with his non-existent – or rather absent – impulse control.

Maeglin throws himself on the bed, pulling the pillow from under his head and pressing it against his chest in a vain attempt of comfort.

His thoughts drift to Gothmog, his mind unerringly catching on that red hair amongst the useless grey buzz of everyone else’s existence, and the ghosts of fingertips come alive on his skin for a second, hot like starbursts.

Annoyed with himself, Maeglin twists around and picks up his phone, unsurprised when he ends up scrolling through the now-familiar texts from the ginger.

_Business trip._

Maeglin had believed it instantly, _of course_. Gothmog could have told him that the Earth is flat for all the trust and faith his words had invoked.

He closes his eyes, fingers stiff around the cool metal and plastic of his phone.

_It’s not fine to ache like this._

_It’s not fine to want you like this._

It’s like an electric currency, this need, this… whatever the fuck it is, a nameless fucking terror that has no name, a sweet-stupid nightmare boogie. He wanted to be the tempter, and ended up being tempted, a prey to the most beautiful predator. A vixen taken, hungry and screaming. It chafes him the wrong way and strokes his back the right way.

Maeglin shivers.

Could he fight for what he wants?

 _Should_ he?

The stiffness of his cock agrees with a part of him that his head disagrees with, but Maeglin’s always been better at following his cock. It’s so much simpler and easier to please, anyway.

He glances at the mirror, then the phone, and gets up.

He might not fight. He might not fight to _win_ , anyway. But he sure as Void is going to remind Gothmog what he’s about to give up.

 

* * *

 

_CRASH!_

Almost amazingly so, there are shards everywhere, like someone had trashed one of the grand windows of Tirion Summer Palace all over the kitchen floor. Maeglin watches mutely as Sergio moves the sea of splintered glass with his foot. 

“How in the coldest crucible of the Void did you manage _that_?!” 

_Clink clink._

He can feel a headache coming…

“Huh, _coglione_?” Sergio continues.

“The old-fashioned way, Serg,” Maeglin sighs. “Being a clumsy fuck.”

Sergio curses volubly and goes for the cleaning cabinet, and Maeglin can see the urge to hit Maeglin in the head with the broomstick rise on the old man’s face. He grabs the broom and the dustpan from him and slinks back, starting to sweep the broken glass off the floor. From the corner of his eye he can see the growing row of orders attached to the beam over the kitchen isle, and the fact that they’re literally drowning in them saves him from getting his arse completely handed to him.

Annoyed with himself and doubly tired, Maeglin empties the dustpan into the recycled glass container and saves a banana peel from there in the progress, relocating it in the biowaste. 

There’s never a moment of quiet in this kitchen – if the evening’s slow, Maeglin isn’t here anyway, so he gets to see this shit side of _success_ pretty much every time he works, with Sergio acting like a beorning shot in the arse because he hates his job even more than he seems to dislike Maeglin. 

And pretty much everyone else, admittedly, including Marie, their boss, who – or so Maeglin thinks – might have been a decent person some twenty years ago when she hadn’t had half the amount of sand shovelled up her pussy that she has now. Not that he can blame her, really. He still prefers her over the grumpy head chef anytime. 

“Money doesn’t grow on trees, you little _stronzo_.”

“Shut the fuck up, Serg.”

The old geezer has the audacity to laugh at Maeglin, and although he wants to shove Sergio’s dentures into his throat he escapes instead, deciding to take a quick one-to-ten count in the toilet. Serves Sergio right to get the reminder of why he needs Maeglin in the kitchen with him when they have twenty orders waiting.

Someone is shouting on the restaurant floor – no shift at the Steakaway would be complete without someone throwing a tantrum, after all – but it’s not Maeglin’s job to deal with the customers, thank fuck.

The only thing that’s quiet tonight is Maeglin’s phone. He digs it out of his pocket, scrolling through his recent messages, finding the photo he’d taken and sent to Gothmog. 

Was it the wrong move to make? Did Gothmog’s lady friend – or whoever he’s been seeing, fuck if Maeglin knows – see it, ask about it? Did Gothmog have to make an excuse for the photo of a poised male backside on his screen? Maeglin almost hopes so. Hell, it’d explain this sudden radio silence, at least.

Gritting his teeth, Maeglin controls his impulse to throw the phone into the wall, leaving the toilet just to get to his bag, taking a little something to ease his nerves and slow down his running thoughts with a sip of water from his bottle. It might suck for Sergio, but Maeglin doesn’t think he can manage to get through the evening without some chemical help.

 

* * *

 

His phone is on silent – an inopportune ring or buzzing noise during Minister Elemmírë’s speech would be catastrophic – and Gothmog doesn’t check it until he is in the taxi back to his hotel, heart speeding a little at the sight of the small message icon. He had opted for a hotel, rather than his aunt’s house, because he knew it would be late by the time the dinner party ended. Opening the message, Gothmog’s stomach flutters. 

_Bloody wee tease._

His cock gives a twitch of interest, but Gothmog is well aware that at half past one in the morning, he’s not up for any sort of return message – instead, he’ll have to think up an appropriate response in the morning… with interest.

He falls asleep with a smile hovering around his lips, dreaming of Maeglin and several fond welcome homes that leave his sheets sticky in the morning.

 

* * *

 

When he finally gets to leave, his phone _still_ hasn’t conveyed a response from Gothmog. The little tick shows the picture has been seen, but there’s no answer whatsoever, and Maeglin’s getting pissed – and desperate, despite himself. 

Now that it’s silent, with only footsteps and an occasional car and drunkenly swaying bicycle keeping him company on the way home, Maeglin finds he can’t deal with the silence.

Good thing he knows someone who’s exceptionally good at taking the silence away… and at silencing inner monsters.

Maeglin texts him.

* * *

  


Looking at the picture again over the lavish breakfast spread, Gothmog types half a response, trying to strike the right balance between scolding and intrigued. Maybe Maeglin isn’t as annoyed with his sudden departure as he’d feared… and he _should_ be able to get back to Tirion by seven at the latest, so...

“Your car has arrived, Sir,” the head waiter interrupts, making him look up in surprise. 

“Ah… Thank you – my bags, Martin?” he asks, putting the phone into the inner pocket of his jacket, text unfinished and unsent.

“Already taken care of, Monsieur Gothmog,” Martin replies. “You’ve tipped the maid generously as always, and the car has been supplied with a cup of fresh Darjeeling.”

“You are a _godsend_ ,” Gothmog tells him, getting to his feet. “Give my regards to the missus, and I’ll see you again in November.”

“Indubitably, Monsieur,” Martin nods, holding Gothmog’s coat at the ready.

Sometimes it’s nice to have both the money and the connections to afford places like this, Gothmog thinks, striding through the doors and returning the doorman’s nod with a fond smile. 

The tea is still steaming in its eco-friendly reusable to-go cup when he clicks on his seat belt.

“To the Palace, Sir?” the driver confirms.

“Aye.” Sipping his tea, Gothmog turns his focus to the upcoming one on one with Minister Elemmírë – he rather enjoys the verbal sparring, in truth, but it takes preparation to stay on par with the Minister.

Gothmog smiles as the car glides into traffic, tea warming his palms.

 

* * *

 

Corben pulls on his new boots, a hint of sweat still glistening on his tattooed back. 

The ache Maeglin feels is just an echo. When the sound of flesh on flesh has died to nothing, the silence that follows brings a sense of regret in its wake.

He wishes he could at least reason that it was worth it. 

Corben has been in Maeglin’s life for nearly ten years and knows him through and through – yet somehow, he’s lost something he’d had before, and Maeglin can’t for the life of him figure out what the hell is wrong with him.

Except that he’s not _Gothmog_ -fucking- _Balrogath_.

_Fuck. Me._

“Wish I didn’t have to run,” Corben says, shooting Maeglin a look over his shoulder. His fringes are feathery spikes from perspiration, and the tee he pulls over his torso immediately clings to his skin. Maeglin realises he’s made the guy work for it for once.

“You drove here,” Maeglin mutters, just to say something. His mind is still spiralling with sudden realisation of just how fucked he is over this guy.

“Smartass.” Corben gets up, wanders into the bathroom. He doesn’t bother closing the door – it’s become more of a bathroom policy when he’s at Maeglin’s. Obstinate fucker. “I’ll be out of town for a day or two.”

“You too, huh.” Maeglin lets his face drop against the pillow, involuntarily hearing Corben’s business only a few metres away.

“Hmm?” Accompanies the _flop-flop-flop_ of toilet paper being pulled off the roll.

_“Nothing.”_

“So that’s why the booty call.” Corben doesn’t sound surprised, but maybe a tad annoyed. 

Maeglin ignores it, getting off the bed and drawing on a pair of sweatpants, fastening them around his hips. They are Gothmog’s – he never returned them, after all.

“It wasn’t a booty call,” Maeglin says, closing the door on Corben. Going into the kitchen, lighting a cigarette while looking down the street, he wonders who he’s trying to dupe. The wind is breezy, bearing the autumn chill, and Maeglin draws in quick drags of smoke to escape it sooner.

He’d been doing well with his semi-spontaneous attempt at quitting, but the weekend’s revelations totally wrecked it.

“Kids don’t call it that these days?” Corben hollers from the bathroom. “Am I just a dick to you, Maeglin, is that it?”

Maeglin bites back a nasty comment at that; Corben doesn’t need to know that he’s had a taste of the real thing in that department recently. And Corben definitely doesn’t play in the same league. “Light a match, dude, I need to take a shower after.”

He almost doesn’t turn to look when Corben leaves two minutes later but it’s not Corben’s fault that he’s fucking ruined, and Maeglin manages to give him a weak smile just before the man closes the door behind him.

The room smells like sex and sweat, but somehow it misses a note of something important – the heady spice and the sea-salt he’d only discovered on Gothmog’s skin – The whiff of tea leaves on his breath, _something amazingly manly that deepens down to something primal in the crook of his neck, hot under Maeglin’s lips…_

Fuck.

Maeglin falls into the rickety chair in front of his desk

He’s fucking _daydreaming_ , and the tent in his pants doesn’t care that he spilled himself onto the sheets less than thirty minutes ago. 

Maeglin glares down himself wondering how Gothmog would look kneeling before him, lips glistening and eyes filled with sweet anticipation.

_Open your mouth for me, Urunya…_

The tent only grows more insistent.

Maeglin sighs, pulling free the laces and shoves his hand under the waistband. He feels sticky and hot, sensitive from rubbing against the mattress, but the satisfaction just isn’t there.

Widening his stance, Maeglin slips his hand beneath his sack, palming it gently and dipping a finger even lower, toying with the softened ring of muscle.

He thinks of Gothmog’s hands, not for the first time, how they’re beautiful despite being big, and wonderfully deft, his fingers capable of all those delicate little flicks and wicked pistoning jabs that drive Maeglin breathless with pleasure.

Yet the thought doesn’t get anywhere until Maeglin’s mood darkens, growing _red_ around edges until that’s all he can see – grabbing his cock hard to punish it for its insolence as he thinks of those fingers driving a woman mad with bliss. 

And not just any woman. 

_The woman._

The Woman in Red.

_Thuri._

Maybe she’s not giving Gothmog anal? Or maybe he just likes to have a guy suck his dick?

Maybe these are good enough reasons to keep Maeglin around. Maybe not.

Why did he reject the thought so quickly when it first arrived, stabbing at his mind while seeing Gothmog’s face colour with concern in front of that little breakfast place? Despite all the shit that’s gone down over the years of Maeglin’s life, he’d chosen to have a little faith for once, to just _believe…_

_And look where it got you. Dumbass._

And still, Maeglin’s desperately clinging to the chance that he’s not being taken for a fool. He’s got no idea how to explain all of this – the underwear, the dainty room, the phone call, the sudden mysterious “trip” – to come to that conclusion instead, but damn if he hasn’t been trying. He’s been carefully examining all the proof he’s got until his head hurts, confused with himself and his stupid haywire feelings that feed these weird, hazy thoughts. And…

…nothing.

Except the way Gothmog looks at him – Maeglin keeps going back to that, and something in him rages and cries with want and despair.

He thinks of Gothmog’s eyes, filled to the brim with sky and ocean, soft like a lover’s touch.

He somehow remembers the tilt of Gothmog’s lips in perfect detail, their shape and colour down to a freckle, the intoxicating taste and succulent flesh. Feeling the urge to bite down every time, he refrains, choosing to draw the outline of Gothmog’s mouth with his tongue, instead… The warm huff of breath he’s rewarded with, the tightening of arms around Maeglin’s body...

Maeglin sighs, suppressing a shiver, looking down to find his hand moving in a slower-than-usual rhythm, the motion familiar. The chair creaks as he flexes his backside, toenails digging into the space between two floor boards, and for a moment he lets loose, throwing back his head and biting his lip, and the orgasm he gains wrings a low groan out of him, saturated with suppressed emotion.

In the silence that follows, Maeglin feels cold, colder than before – he gets up and shrugs himself out of the sweatpants, patting into the bathroom and prays the water’s going to be warm enough. He washes himself mechanically but thoroughly, soaping every crevice and scraping his privates smooth to his liking.

It’s Thursday after all, but he hasn’t heard from Gothmog yet.

He could have lied, or just changed his mind. Maybe he’s not home yet. Maybe he’s taking care of the Woman in Red, feeding her biscuits and tea.

_Maybe maybe maybe._

Maeglin clears steam off the mirror and starts shaving his face, cleaning away the shadow of stubble, focusing on his hair growth rather than the dull dead look in his eyes or the unhappy, nervous set of his mouth. The past couple of years his facial hair has been picking up the pace it lacked all of Maeglin’s early adulthood years, and he’s not so sure how he likes that. If he doesn’t shave, he begins to look like his father on his hangover days, and it’s not an image he treasures in the mirror.

All in all, the idea that he’s starting to resemble his father more and more as he ages and losing the looks of his mother upsets him.

Maeglin blow-dries his hair for once, shaking his head at the wild fluff it turns into, and measures a small amount of product into it to keep it slightly more civilised. For a second he’s tempted to straighten it and go for a bit more sleek and dramatic look, but the idea loses its appeal as soon as he remembers Gothmog’s fascination with his curls. It’s been surprisingly refreshing to let his hair do its thing, but he’s unsure whether he can truly learn to like the coiling locks.

_Does it matter? When this shitshow eventually plays its course, I’m just going to want to burn everything. I could shave it all off and be done with it._

Tugging on a loose strand, he grimaces at himself in the mirror. Something _must_ give soon. Otherwise he’ll be moping over the memories, all pathetic. _You are pathetic already, don’t even deny it._

Pulling on his bathrobe, Maeglin returns to the room, picking up the book he’d been reading through he knows full well his anxious brain isn’t going to retain any bit of knowledge he tries to feed it.

He thinks back to last night, grimacing. He hadn’t been all himself when he called up Corben, but it’s a poor excuse and he knows it. Since Friday he’s been pushing it, avoiding Gothmog and all thoughts of him with varying levels of success, trying to work himself to exhaustion and spending the rest of the time doped up and sleeping. His unhealthy coping mechanisms – and wouldn’t it be nice if knowing they’re unhealthy was enough to make him _stop?_ – are already taking their toll and that doesn’t help him feel any less annoyed by Gothmog’s vague behaviour. 

It feels like _he_ is second-hand doing this to Maeglin, like fucked up choices were like smoke lingering in someone’s clothes waiting to infect the next unlucky fucker with some sort of lung cancer.

Maeglin tries hard to _not_ think like that. It’s fucked up.

He had taken the photo on a whim, pulling down his jeans to expose half of his globes to the camera, performing some impressive gymnastics to get the shot and make it hot, and he’d sent it before the already made decision to play distant and hard-to-get resurfaced.

He’d felt like an absolute failure, then, but the horniness didn’t subside. It still hasn’t.

_Fuck’s sake._

It’s like Maeglin’s entire body is already waiting for the next fix of Gothmog, no matter what his brain is doing – no matter how much blame he puts on Gothmog, he can’t help feeling like a piece of dough ready to be kneaded.

And… honestly, it’s not like it’s _new_ to Maeglin to be someone’s second choice. Just… why lie about it? Why… _why_ make Maeglin feel like he matters so much when he doesn’t? Is it all in his stupid head?

Gothmog gave him a tour through his wonderland and now everything else looks so fucking grey he’s not sure he can stand it.

He goes over to his drawer to pick a pair of socks when his fingers hit something much softer. With a strange sense of awe, Maeglin picks up the panties, staring at them and running his knobby thumb over the silken fabric.

They look so innocent, and then not.

He can’t remember seeing anything quite like this among his mother’s clothes – he recalls sneaking a peek at Idril dressing up or undressing a few times, but her underwear was never see-through like this.

Maybe undies like these aren’t meant to be worn casually. They don’t look all too comfy, for all they are soft…

He barely notices he’s shaking when he steps into the panties, half-expecting them not to fit him.

Somehow, they do, though he has to arrange his junk a bit to keep it decent – whatever decent means, with shit like this.

Looking down, Maeglin draws in a breath.

He looks fucking obscene.

The small bow sits nestled just a little above where his cock is rooted, a little crooked from being bundled up carelessly – the lace covering his front stretches over his prick, showing more than it hides, and as he stares at it he feels himself jolt and come alive, the sensation of having his flesh scraping against the airy pattern so new he has to lay a hand over it, feel it, marvel at the coolness he feels when he pulls his fingers away.

_Wow._

He runs a digit over the seam, imagining how fabric like this would cling to someone softer than him – he discovers it digs lightly into the upper part of his buttock, and a little less lightly into his taint, chafing a little when he moves.

The part covering his arse feels like it isn’t even there, though, more than making up for it. As he feels it up, he finds the cloth only just about covers his cleft, probably slipping down a little if he bends over. The mesh is so thin Maeglin can feel the raised skin beneath it.

Is he cold?

He’s been so caught up in this he’s missed that. His nipples are sharp points and his throat feels oddly achy.

Maybe he should get dressed properly.

Maeglin doesn’t. He dips a finger into his crack and lightly against his hole – clean but still soft and yielding – through the fabric, gasping quietly at the way it touches the furrowed skin. It’s cool but warms up fast, and his cock jerking in attention causes the lace to tighten over his scrotum, summoning a full-body shiver.

Whatever he thinks at that moment is a delicious mix of blasphemy and disbelieving wonder.

It’s just a piece of cloth. It shouldn’t be such a big deal.

 _It isn’t_. He can look into the mirror and tell himself that he’s being a fool and should stop this weird pretend game.

_You aren’t her. You can’t be her._

Maeglin raises his gaze, and for a second or ten everything just… _stops_.

It’s not him, and still it has to be.

All white skin and lush black hair and terrified, dark eyes, bitten lips licked wet, cheeks flushed. The parted robe makes him look softer somehow, hiding many of his sharp angles.

A small part of his mind whispers to him that he looks a little like his mother – but that passes in a rush of denial, buried under other kinds of turbulent feelings Maeglin’s trying and failing to make sense of. Dazed, he lets the robe drop, exposing all the sharp bones to his fascinated eyes, running his hands slowly over each hip and along the curve of his ribcage.

Somehow, he still looks soft, and Maeglin can’t fucking fathom it. It’s not possible. It’s some kind of weird optical trick.

Maybe he’s still high.

He has to be. He just put on women’s panties, for fuck’s sake.

And not just any woman’s.

He should be disgusted with himself.

In a haze, Maeglin collects the bathrobe from the floor and sticks his suddenly numb hands into the sleeves. He hides the evidence of his weirdly-placed longing by pulling the fabric tightly over his chest, tying the sash at his waist, and then finally wanders into the kitchen while trying to ignore the pulsing at his groin.

It’s later than he realised. Late afternoon; he’s missed his morning class. Still no word from Gothmog.

Maeglin stuffs a piece of toast into his mouth, flushing it down with water.

He thinks of round, soft breasts pressed against Gothmog’s shapely, furry chest, nipples like cherries dragging over freckled skin.

Flustered with himself, Maeglin opens the window, lets the breeze soothe the blush from his cheeks.

It’s partly anger, he knows. He’s torturing himself with these images needlessly to feed it.

Sighing, Maeglin runs a hand through his hair.

_Thuri’s must be longer. Thicker. Shinier._

_Stop._

Then Maeglin’s phone rings, and everything is chaos.

 

* * *

 

Gothmog’s good luck – and good mood – continues while he’s in Vanyamar, even if the trip ends up slightly more business than expected. He still has time to pick up and arrange delivery of a case of Maman’s favourite wine and a bottle of the perfume Olive favours. 

He’s never been afraid to admit that he is a mummy’s boy.

Sitting in the train, sipping a cup of surprisingly good tea obtained from the trolley, he reads through the emails on his phone, finding none of the business-related queries and issues capable of keeping him from thinking about the lewd picture Maeglin texted him the night before, the wee tease entirely aware that Gothmog was having dinner with Minister Elemmírë and unable to answer until long after Maeglin would have gone to bed.

Shame, really. 

Maeglin’s arse is no less fantastic in pictures than in person and whatever itch he was looking to scratch last night Gothmog would have been happy to help. He’d be happy to help _now_ in fact.

His cock gives a small twitch at the thought, but the doors open to admit an old lady and a goth teenager and Gothmog has to shelve the thought of responding in kind. Instead, he forces himself to read the news – not altogether dismal, for once – instead of spending the next hour daydreaming about Maeglin’s sweet noises.

“Next station, Tirion Central,” the announcer proclaims, surprising him out of a fantasy he had barely realised he’d fallen into. “Please remember your luggage when you leave the train.”

Despite the lavish breakfast Martin provided, Gothmog feels a need for spiciness and richer flavours than those found at Minister Elemmírë’s table; a good Utumnic pepper steak – and he knows where to get the best in the city, too.

Maybe Maelin would like to go out looking nice somewhere even on an ordinary Thursday? Shaking his head to clear it, he stretches, giving himself a onceover as he fingers his phone.

He’s still dressed for business: good dark grey trousers, a still-crisp shirt with the cufflinks Da made him for his 30th birthday, a patterned but understated tie, and the dark jacket with the purple undertones that Thuri once bought him claiming it made his hair look like a wildfire. It’s semi-casual, but definitely more formal and professional than Maeglin’s seen him before; the thought makes Gothmog wince, slightly, and consider removing his tie, but on the other hand he likes the way it makes his eyes swoon-worthy – again Thuri’s words – and his hand falls before it reaches the knot as he suddenly has to scramble to gather up his belongings.

On the platform, the phone back in his hand, Gothmog smiles, pressing the small green symbol.

“Just got off the train; I’m famished… pick you up in 20 min on the corner of Ilmarë and Sickle Street?” he asks, hearing the smile in his own voice. “Wear something nice.”

Flagging down a cab – he’s only got a small trolley, the hostess will probably keep it for him while they eat for a tip so it’s not an issue – Gothmog gives the address, feeling his heart beat a little faster as they speed through the well-lit streets. Maeglin lives in a reasonably priced area with lots of student housing but he’s been evasive with the exact address and simply told Gothmog the closest intersection to his home. It’ll have to do, even if it’s not as romantic a start to a date as picking him up at his own door, but – given Maeglin’s issues so far – Gothmog has decided to be patient with him, proving himself trustworthy with the parts of himself that Maeglin is willing to share.

 

* * *

 

Maeglin usually thinks that he’s good at accepting things taking sudden odd turns, rolling with whatever life throws at him, but he wasn’t prepared to dash a twenty-minute walk out of the blue. He dresses swiftly, brushes his teeth, hurries down the stairs only to return a minute later for his phone, then _quick quick quick_ down again, across the street, not bothering with his squeaky old bicycle with a nearly flat front tire. Maeglin’s fast on his feet, anyway, but he’s risking his life dodging cars and throngs of people going about their business, praying in the back of his mind that no one decides to take him for a purse-thief or whatever.

_I’m going to be fucking winded – he’s going to ask what the hell is going on._

For a moment he questions why he’s bothering, but the answer requires capacity for reasoning Maeglin’s lacking right now.

Somehow it’s crucial that he’s going to be there in time.

_He’s going to dump you. That’s why he wants to meet in a public place._

“No,” Maeglin says, shaking his head and picking up his pace – an elderly man turns to look at him, puzzled, then shakes his head and mutters something about _junkie thugs_.

_In just about two minutes, you’ll be fucked. In a crappy way. You’re going to hope that bus would’ve hit you. It’d save both of you from the humiliation._

His lungs burn, and black dots are doing a trepak across his vision, but he manages to veer past a group of students and dive between two food trucks just after the light turns red, causing a wave of angry honking run along the line of impatient people waiting for their turn.

Maeglin doesn’t dare to look at his phone for time, but he knows he’s cutting it fucking close.

Maybe Gothmog will have left by the time he gets there.

For a second, he debates calling him and telling him he’s going to be late, but he just told Gothmog he’s home, and his home isn’t exactly where Gothmog thinks it is… That’d mean more explaining. If Gothmog’s going to tell him it’s… _over…_ then Maeglin’s not going to give him more fodder against him. He’ll accept it graciously.

Like he should have accepted when he realised, for the third time, that there’s a woman in Gothmog’s life.

 

* * *

 

He’s made it.

For a moment, air stands still around him – there’s a cab waiting in the exact spot Gothmog told Maeglin he’d pick him up from. Maeglin swallows the hot saliva beneath his tongue and teases back his hair, fearing he looks like a mess – forcing himself into appropriately hurried gait instead of mad running, he walks over and plasters on a smile he hopes to be easy and charming. It’s like hot glue on his face, but he keeps it on while trying to decide what in the Void should he do when Gothmog speaks. There’s a chance Maeglin can tell by then what Gothmog’s going to say – the shit thing is that until he’s certain he doesn’t think he has the necessary courage to act…

 

“I missed you,” Gothmog murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to Maeglin’s neatly shaved cheek. 

Maeglin’s distantly aware of the usual smell of a cab, vague hints of customers past seeping from the seats, but as soon as Gothmog’s lips touch his cheek there’s only him. _Only him._

“Sorry I didn’t have time to chat last night,” Gothmog continues. “Minister Elemmírë is one of those people it’s best not to get on the bad side of if you want to do business with the public offices of Vanyamar. I feel like I haven’t had a break all day.” 

Maeglin’s stiff in his seat and when they drive over a small speed bump Gothmog leans back in his seat, scratching his neck lightly. 

_Patience._

Reaching across the middle to take Maeglin’s hand, just finished buckling himself in, he rubs his thumb slowly across Maeglin’s pale skin. “You didn’t have to run, you know,” he teases, “I would have waited a few minutes.”

Maeglin swallows as he looks out of the window, pretending to see something very interesting out there while collecting his thoughts. His heart pounding wildly against his ribs along with the rush of adrenaline in his blood doesn’t help with that.

“Oh yeah,” he says, pointedly easy-breezy nonchalant. He turns to look at Gothmog, noting the way he’s dressed. Beautiful. Handsome. Does he look like he’s been travelling? That’s a nice tie. Maeglin wishes he’d had the time to consider his own attire more than his shirt being clean and his socks holeless.

There’s warmth in Gothmog’s eyes – the hand holding Maeglin’s is something he can feel up to his elbow, little electric jolts running up his tendons. For a second Maeglin thinks it will defeat him, make him admit his sordid thoughts.

“How was your trip?” he asks, his eyes scanning Gothmog’s face, trying not to get distracted by his looks. “I hope you made time for fun stuff. I hear Vanyamar is pretty during autumn.”

“It is!” Gothmog smiles, gesturing towards distant horizons. “I do love it – Maman’s family live away from the capital, and sadly I hadn’t time to visit, but it is beautiful countryside with a lot of vineyards – even if there are too few mountains for my liking.” Turning back to Maeglin, he winks. “And a lack of good company, of course. I’m glad to be home.” The taxi glides to a halt. “I hope you don’t mind me picking the restaurant,” Gothmog says sheepishly, suddenly feeling slightly domineering, “but I’ve been craving the steak the Utumnic chef makes here since I left.” Getting his card out of his briefcase, Gothmog pays the driver, walking around the car to get his trolley from the boot. “They do things that aren’t steak, too,” he adds hastily, nodding towards ‘The Fiery Dragon’ that Maeglin is staring at, the large painting of a red and orange fire-breathing dragon graffiti coiling sinuously across the facade of the building.

Maeglin feels like he’s been picked up by the hurricane named Gothmog again. He hadn’t been thinking far enough to get to the actual eating part yet, too caught up having to be in that small space together with this man, and now he’s thrown off track once more, standing in front of an unfamiliar place with a slightly intimidating front. He smooths down the front of his shirt and discreetly tries his jacket pocket for his wallet, throwing an off-glance towards the trolley Gothmog’s pulling along.

Curiosity pricks at him, but for now he suppresses it, smiling up at Gothmog. He sure looks good. Fucking glorious. Maeglin feels like a threadbare rag next to him.

“Steak’s fine.” Maeglin tries to smile. “I’m not dressed for this place.”

There’s a terri-bad thought that maybe he won’t be allowed in like this. Do establishments such as this have a dress code? Would Gothmog have said something if he thought so? The only pair of pressed dress pants Maeglin has belong to his work uniform – and he still hasn’t dealt with the grease stain he got on them during his last shift, so they’d have been out of the question anyhow.

“You’re fine,” Gothmog soothes, shifting the trolley handle into the same hand as his briefcase. “Besides, I know the owner.” Taking Maeglin’s hand again – that is allowed, he thinks, even though they’ve left the cosy dark of the cab – Gothmog squeezes gently. “Let’s go.”

“If you say so,” Maeglin murmurs in answer, feeling a little numb when he steps into the restaurant and is immediately hit with all the delicious smells.

He sighs with relief – the clientele seems to be… normal people… and not a crowd of Gothmogs in their fineries. The man at his side is easily the most impressive in the whole place, in all the meanings of the word. “This looks like a nice place.”

Maybe he can breathe a little easier now – without noticing, he squeezes Gothmog’s hand back, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles.

“It is – and the food’s great!” Gothmog promises. 

“Well, well, well... if it ain’t the resident forest fire. Almost worried you'd forgotten we exist, wee _lasair_.”

“Says the resident lightning strike,” Gothmog shoots back, not missing a beat, and grins at the tall woman behind the hostess stand. “It’s good to see you, too, _auntie dealanach_.”

She shakes her head, tutting lightly. “Still not your aunt. What’ve you been up to, ya wee bunch o’ trouble?”

“Just been busy, Mistress Scatha,” Gothmog replies, giving her his most charming smile as he curses the nickname. Why does he keep thinking it’s a good idea to take Maeglin on dates to places staffed with people who’ve known him since he was knee high to a pony?

“Oh, _Mistress_ today, is it? Must be trying to impress your young man.” Her smile must always have been that toothy but Gothmog suddenly _knows_ that there is a call from Maman in his future and he’ll be lucky if the wine and the blouse he bought her will mollify her anger at being so low on the list of people he introduces his new boyfriend to. 

“This is Maeglin, Scatha, you going to give us a table or no?” he grumbles, giving up on the thought of cowing her to keep silent; it’d never work, anyway. Scatha is a feisty wee baggage, as Da would have said, and always has been. Giving her his best hangdog look in hopes of some sympathy – Scatha has only contempt for Vanyarin cuisine – Gothmog adds, “I need a good juicy steak – the Vanyarin public officials insisted on serving me _incredibly_ bland chicken!” 

Scatha laughs, a glimmer of a smile flashing across her face. 

“Och, puir wee lamb,” she croons, patting his forearm before grabbing a pair of menus and waving them along towards one of the tables by the back walls where his trolley won’t be in the way of staff or customers. “You do look a bit peaky but we’ll soon sort that. Smaug’s probably grilling your T-bone already – he has a sense for your presence I’ve always found disturbing.” With that, she swans off – if a woman like Scatha could be said to swan anywhere; _prowling_ is more her type of motion – to her hostess stand, saying something to a waitress in passing.

“Is that woman related to you?” Maeglin asks as he seats himself, confused by the strange exchange between the two. He’s got the feeling he has eyes glued on his back, but a quick glance behind shows Scatha pays them no attention at all. Currently, anyway.

“Nah, Scatha’s an old friend of my Da’s,” Gothmog laughs brightly. “She’s a right old dragon, really,” he adds fondly. 

Gothmog’s playing his home fields, Maeglin realises. Somehow, no matter where they go, there’s someone who knows him, likes him, would fight on his team. For a moment he feels terribly alone, realising he’s got no such advantage at all.

Focusing on the menu, he looks at the prices before he lays an eye on the dishes. Some of the names are complete gibberish to him, but Maeglin figures out everything except side potatoes is meat.

“If you’re not in the mood for steak, I’d go for the grilled trout or the steamed cod with chips,” Gothmog says, not even opening his own menu. “Smaug prefers to think beef is the only meat worth cooking, but he’s too good at fish to take it off the menu. Also Scatha wouldn’t let him; she’s a pescatarian. She’s the one wielding the whip, no matter that it’s Smaug’s name on the lease.”

“I see,” Maeglin says, looking up from the menu. He’s hungry, but too stressed to think whether he fancies beef or cod or trout. “I’ll take your word on the trout, then.” Sighing, he closes the leather covers and lays the menu on the table, leaning back in his chair, fidgeting for a second while taking in the surroundings. Accidentally he meets eyes with a stranger and quickly looks away, eyes tracing the pattern in Gothmog’s tie instead until his gaze drifts up to his face.

_Are you fucking the woman you went to the ball with?_

Maeglin gets up. He desperately needs a splash of water on his face. He’s feeling feverish. “Going to pop into the toilet. Back in a minute.”

Something is off, Gothmog realises, frowning after Maeglin’s ramrod straight back. It’s in the way he can’t quite meet Gothmog’s eyes, the way his posture has remained tense since before he got into the cab, and the way his voice is subdued in tone. Something is definitely bothering Maeglin, and it’s putting a damper on Gothmog’s good mood. He can’t work out what is it, because it can’t be lingering upset from last night’s aborted sexting, surely; he apologised for that already.

Maybe Maeglin’s simply had a bad day? Gothmog almost hopes so – he’s got a knack for fixing bad days, after all – drumming his fingers on the table until one of Scatha’s minions sets down a small breadbasket.

 

* * *

 

Maeglin needs to stop himself from running – for one confused moment he’s lost all sense of direction and realises he’s got no idea where the bathrooms are, but thank all the gods he’d managed to rush in the approximately right direction. Slipping into the relative quiet of the restroom, Maeglin can finally breathe, feeling a sense of gratefulness that no one else needed to pee just as he needs to avert a panic attack.

It’s a very nice restroom – certainly gets cleaned more often and much better than the greasy spoon Maeglin works at – with another impressive golden-red dragon painted across the wall in the style of the Red Mountains. He doesn’t stay to admire it for long, but slips into the stall, sitting down on the toilet cover and leaning forward, cradling his head in his hands.

He has no fucking idea what he’s doing anymore.

Every word of kindness and warm look just makes it worse.

Maybe that’s Gothmog’s way to soften up the eventual crash.

Still, Maeglin doesn’t know if pretending like this is worse than any direct, cruel word. He’s somewhat more prepared for that, anyway, than for this slow torture of anticipation.

Void, he should just go back and say the words tingling on his tongue, waiting to snatch their chance like hungry hyenas. Shatter Gothmog’s homefield advantage. Put him on the fucking defence. Maybe the truth would then come out without this ridiculous foreplay.

And still Maeglin doesn’t want that, either. He wants to undo the photo in the paper. He wants to go back to his blessed ignorance. He wants to walk past that fucking gym.

“You alright in there, mate?”

Maeglin stills. He didn’t hear anyone enter. “Wha–?”

“Only I’m going to need to get in there soon. That chili was a bit too hard on my poor tummy.”

Maeglin stands up, supporting himself against the wall when a wave of vertigo hits him. “Hold on just a sec.” He flips the lid up and starts to unbutton his jeans, fingers struggling with the suddenly too tight loops.

“You had the chili sauce too, mate?”

“Nah.”

“I don’t know what they put in that, but my whole digestion’s on fire. The hell’s ‘Dragon’s Breath’ supposed to mean, anyway?”

“It doesn’t sound good.” Fumbling a button, he feels a bead of sweat roll down his spine.

“Right? This is the last time I’m going to take recommendations from that woman. When I told her to tell the chef I want it hotter than balrog pussy, I didn’t mean I want to fucking _die_. Listen, are you done soon? I think I’m about to rupture my rectum.”

_“Fuck’s sake dude –”_

Maeglin just about stops himself from popping off that last button in frustration, and pulls at the waistband of his boxers –

Except for one minor detail.

_“FUCK.”_

“I’m serious, I’m going to shit in the urinal in five seconds.”

_“Shit in your own fucking mouth for all I care – shut the fuck up or you’ll pick your teeth from the fucking urinal.”_

Silence.

_Great._

_Fucking great._

_Well done you idiot._

Maeglin doesn’t think he remembers how to breathe anymore.

Against the pallor of his skin, the outrageous red is as inconspicuous as a trombone quartet in a funeral home.

It’s okay to forget to take your keys. It’s okay to look for your glasses while wearing them.

It’s not fucking okay to forget to take off your boyfriend’s girlfriend’s panties before going out with him.

“…Mate.”

_You’re a creep. You’re a fucking creep.  
You don’t do stuff like **this** without wanting it on some weird subliminal level of consciousness._

_Take them off, Maeglin, take them off_

_This is the shit your father called you a pervert for. He was fucking right._

He begins to undo his shoelaces, bumping his arse against the wall.

_I’m just going to remove them, and flush them down the toilet or something_

“Not a word, man.”

_You can’t even fucking dress yourself._

“It’s too late now, anyway.” The faceless man on the other side of the door sounds unhappy.

Maeglin stops, and slowly straightens himself, leaning his forehead against the wall.

“Yeah,” he says. “For me too.”

“…Sorry about that. You want to talk about it?”

Maeglin barks a bitter laugh. “Do I want to talk about my private fuckup with a random guy who just crapped his own pants?”

“…Actually, I crapped the urinal.”

“That’s… reassuring.”

“Whatever it is, it can’t be worse than this, can it? You’re going to be fine, mate. Girl trouble?”

“Sorta.”

“Girls are like weed, friend. They just need enough light and moisture and love and attention. You just got to try and put yourself in her shoes.”

_What about her underwear…_

_Fuck, Gothmog, I can’t do this. I really can’t. If you don’t leave me, and I can’t leave you, what’s it going to make of us? I’m terrified to be with you, and terrified to be without you, but eventually you’re going to find out everything and hate me for it. And I’m going to be a bitter fuck because I’m not enough for you. I’m going to hate you back… I already hate you. I hate you. I hate you for making me discover I’m weak and vulnerable and I never got away from that place. I’ll never know if you truly care enough. I don’t even know you. You don’t know me._

_Maybe you should…_

“Are you still alive in there?”

Maeglin sighs, buttoning his jeans up. “Do me a gigantic favour and get out of here so I can leave without seeing the guy who crapped in the urinal.”

A moment of silence. Maeglin wonders how long he’s been gone. Maybe Gothmog’s left without him. Maybe he’s having an episode for nothing. His body feels hot, his cheeks are inflamed, but the sweat spotting his forehead feels icy.

He waits until he hears the door close, and then steps out of the cubicle, ignoring the impulse to look towards the urinal. 

Quickly, he splashes some cold water across his face, drying his skin with a paper towel. Stealing a look in the mirror to check himself for resolve he doesn’t manage to find, he leaves the bathroom, fingers still trembling lightly. 

Still, when he returns to the table, he feels almost composed.

 

* * *

 

Gothmog’s stomach growls, appeased only slightly by the buttered bread he eats in two bites, swallowing the last of it just as Maeglin comes back from the gents’. Looking up at the sound of footsteps, he tries to smile, but Maeglin still seems tense – and a little dazed. 

“Had a long day?” he asks softly.

“You could say that,” Maeglin murmurs, sitting down and picking a piece of bread from the basket. It’s soft and good. Blood sugar’s a good thing. He needs this. “Work’s stressing me out. School’s stressing me out. My friend’s stressing me out.”

Then he looks up, finds Gothmog’s eyes, nudges his foot under the table with his. “But I feel like it’s getting better now. I missed you too, you know.”

“All you need is some good food and a relaxing night,” Gothmog reckons, nodding to himself. The food is coming, and he wouldn’t mind spending the evening cuddling to a movie, either. “But I’m glad I’m not the only one who thought it was very inconveniently timed trip.” 

“Your steak, sir,” the waitress announces, putting a mouthwatering plate before him, “and chef said he’ll hear no claims about weak salsa from you today – _or else_.” She looks like she’s not quite sure if she should be more afraid of Gothmog or her boss. 

He grins. “Aye, well, you can tell old Smoggy that if he dares to call something _Dragon’s Breath_ , it’d better make me actually spew flames,” he tells her, inhaling the fragrant smell of roasted peppers. “Also, good point, I think I will have a bowl of that as dip for the rest of the bread.” Glancing across the table where Maeglin’s golden-brown trout is arranged just as beautifully, he nods, “You want anything else, Maegs?”

Maeglin’s smile is slightly woody. “I think I’m going to pass on the salsa.”

Gothmog is distracted from the answer by the horrified expression of the man exiting the restroom at that moment, heading directly for Scatha’s station; the look on her face in response to whatever he’s saying is frostier than the time Gothmog and Thuri accidentally set her favourite house palm on fire. 

The man makes shift to get out of her way, which Gothmog thinks is wise. Scatha on the warpath is not for the faint of heart.

 

The trout is a piece of perfection. Maeglin doesn’t remember the last time he had fish that wasn’t fish fingers, and despite his fluctuating levels of anxiety he feels hot saliva coating his mouth at the sight. He takes a sip of water from the sparkling glass, tipping it in Gothmog’s direction, and then picks up his utensils.

“So why is your friend stressing you out?” Gothmog wonders, picking up a hot pepper and stuffing his mouth full of the flavours that have always meant home to him – Maman tried her best and he does love Vanyarin cuisine with its rich creaminess and the oozing of buttery goodness, but Utumnic food is what Gran made, and Smaug’s version carries the comforting scents of her kitchen. 

The knife is sharp and cuts into the fish with ease, showing the perfectly cooked flesh beneath the skin. Expertly, Maeglin peels back the skin, focused on his task to not let any goodness stick to it and go to waste.

Maeglin shrugs at first, then decides to speak. “He’s…” _taking me for granted_ “…behaving like a piece of shit lately.” He shifts in his place, wishing he could put a hand down his jeans to fix the cursed thing cutting into his left testicle. “We disagree too much to be friends but have known each other too long to be anything else. Does it make sense?”

“Old friendships can be like that,” Gothmog nods, looking at Maeglin across the table. _You need a distraction…_ “I saw on your first form that your last name began with an L - your mother's surname?” he asks. “How do you pronounce it, Laslo?” He doesn’t think it’s quite right; there were odd accent marks on the form.

Maeglin looks up from his fish, surprised and then-again-not-so – he knew this would come up eventually.

“No, no... My father's,” he says. “He just prefers to have his surname first; traditional among his people.” He shrugs. “Apparently that confused people in the army so he became just Eöl.” He tries to smile a little. “You said it quite alright.”

“I did wonder,” Gothmog admits, but doesn’t ask why Maeglin kept the name of the man whose actions made him as good as an orphan and heavily traumatised to boot. It’s not the sort of thing to speak of in the middle of a crowded dinner rush. “I have a friend who goes solely by his mother’s family name – his father is one of the Twelve Lords, and he prefers the anonymity of a different name in his everyday life.” He understands the allure, though he’s never had the desire to copy Glorfindel’s methods – being Balrogath – _being the Balrog of Clan Balrogath_ – is as much a part of him as his left arm, and finding himself suddenly Monsieur Cuvier would be too strange.

Maeglin doesn’t have to ask who it is Gothmog’s referring to; he just smiles and puts a piece of fish in his mouth, deciding he’s going to stay even further away from Glorfindel from now on.

He’s happy Gothmog isn’t asking that question he was expecting him to, though, so he rewards that with a sort of an answer to sate some of that curiosity that must be there. “It’s a name,” he says, frowning to himself, “it’s my name. I’ve decided to do whatever I want with it. If it doesn’t make my father proud, that’s not my problem.”

Shaking himself out of another set of sullen thoughts, Maeglin gestures towards Gothmog with his fork. “So, you’re from Utumno, then?”

_What are you playing at, Gothmog? Aren’t you going to dump me after all?_

Maeglin’s heart doesn’t know whether to calm down a little at the thought or speed up until it jumps right out of his chest – it’s hard to act any sort of normal when nothing seems to happen, but the anticipation is just _there_ …

“The accent wasn’t a giveaway?” Gothmog laughs, purposefully rolling his r’s and making the brogue more pronounced. “And here I thought it’d be the first thing anyone would ken me for!”

Maeglin flushes at that, almost dropping his fork at the shiver that runs through him – _damn you Lavalocks!_

“You're a little younger than I'd thought, too,” Gothmog continues, “I’d pegged you for 28, but I saw that it’ll be your birthday soon enough.” He chuckles at himself. “Thuri thought you were much too young for me at first – a lot of the new pupils of late have been late teens – and kept calling me an old lecher.” He grins, knowing that he's still probably a little lecherous but hardly minding.

“That so?” Maeglin asks, trying to keep his tone light though his hair is standing at the back of his neck. “You can't be _that_ much older than me…” He grins, hoping the gesture hides the way he's feeling inside. _Why is he talking about her?_

“32,” Gothmog shrugs, cutting a morsel of steak, “I'm a spring chicken.” Winking, he closes his lips around the fork, the gesture turning lewd at the sound of pure pleasure he makes when the flavours burst across his tongue. “This is bloody _heaven_ ,” he sighs happily, a splash of good wine following the steak. “You like Utumnic cuisine, by the way?”

Maeglin can't help a warm sensation at the sight - and sound - of Gothmog eating and enjoying his food. He almost misses the question, caught between arousal and his still lingering confusion bordering irritation. “Who doesn't? It's flavourful and heavy.” He smiles, picking up a bit of his fish and dashing it through the glaze on the plate. “Don't get to eat it properly that often, though,” he admits, shrugging. “The place I work at has one or two Utumnic things on the menu but I'm not sure they count... Nothing like this thing, anyway,” he adds, gesturing at his fish before nodding  at Gothmog's steak. “Or that.” 

It feels like stalling, somehow, all these questions, these niceties… dancing around explosive subjects, and Maeglin’s fuse is running short. He has to know whether there’s any TNT or not.

“Tell me more about your trip?” he asks, looking up at Gothmog while putting a piece of fish into his mouth. It melts on his tongue. “Did you go on your own? Do you do excursions like that often?”

“Well, a lot of it was frankly dull as sticks,” Gothmog admits – speechifying has never been his favourite pastime – but the exciting parts, the parts that make it worth attending such events, make it worth having to put up with the rest. “Vanyamar is beautiful but their public officials could rival Scatha for evil stubbornness,” he adds. “I’m just glad it was at least a little useful.” Gothmog shrugs, cutting into his steak and popping a bite into his mouth with another lusty groan. “This is _so good_ … you want a piece?” he offers.

 _I should have expected that_ flashes through his mind, and Gothmog has to chuckle at himself when Maeglin’s lips close around the tines of the fork, his eyes black pools of simmering lust that don’t fail to spark a response in Gothmog’s loins. He swallows back a sudden flood of saliva, hiding his expression in the glass of wine the waitress poured him. He’d stopped her offering one for Maeglin, and too late it hits him that Maeglin might have an issue with _him_ drinking, too. 

“Do you mind?” he asks, tilting the glass when he’s swallowed his sip, the dark ruby liquid swirling in the glass and making fine curtains on the crystal.

Maeglin watches Gothmog, thoughtfully, while chewing his morsel of meat. Not that it really needs chewing, it’s just as tender as the fish is. His gaze darts between Gothmog’s eyes and the glass he’s holding, and he can’t help being a bit touched at the concern, especially when it happens so fast after a flirtatious moment. He shakes his head, sending a couple of curls flying about his face, then smiles, a little unsure but wanting to be a big boy about this just once.

“No. Go ahead. I’ll be fine.”

“Alright,” Gothmog nods, resolving to keep an eye on Maeglin regardless. “And no, I usually go alone – though sometimes I’ll join up with contacts at the other end providing introductions to people worth knowing in my business – do you know what I do for a living, actually, I’m not sure I told you…?” Flushing lightly, Gothmog runs a hand through his hair, scratching his neck. 

“I guess it’s not ‘boxing coach’?” Maeglin teases. 

“Nah, the gym’s a bit of fun – good laughs with mates, that sort of thing–” _and a hidden shelter for abused women, I guess_ , Gothmog thinks, but doesn’t say: that purpose is best served by secrecy. “- but it barely breaks even with the overhead. No, I’m a real estate developer – it’s not as bad as it sounds, really… though I admit not everyone in this business is entirely above board.” 

Maeglin’s having trouble to decide whether that surprises him or doesn’t surprise him at all. It sounds so weird that it’s somehow almost likely, like dogs ugly enough are suddenly cute. It doesn’t answer all his questions, though, and there are things from before that still worry him – from the night he spilled Gothmog’s wine and had to come clean with his phobia.

“Is that… a calling?” he asks, raising a brow, choosing to push a little. “Or something you decided to do after the army?” He tries to keep the question light, though there’s something about the entire word that he hates.

“More of an accident, honestly,” Gothmog admits, smiling. “I was a bit lost, after the war – did a stint as an embassy guard in Japan, which was honestly more dangerous than the war itself – and didn’t come home until Gran died.” He pauses, taking a fortifying sip of wine and banishes the memory of his vivacious gran eaten away by the insidious cancer, diminished in her hospital bed, blind but with a more acute vision than ever. _You need to make something of yourself beyond the name, lad – the touch of creators is on you_. “I didn’t know what I wanted to do, but I was tired of warfare and violence... My Da told me to renovate one of our houses while I worked out what to spend my life on… and I realised I liked the work.” He shrugs, spearing a bit of broccoli with his fork. “And when I got a chance to project manage a larger new build, I took that,” gesturing with the fork, he adds, “and things snowballed from there.” 

“Smart man who’s also good with his hands.” Maeglin smiles, sticks a potato wedge into his mouth. “I like that. There are people who break things, and people who build things. And some who fix other people’s messes, I guess. There’s a need for all kinds. Balances the world out.”

“At the moment I’m working on a few projects here in Tirion,” Gothmog nods, pleased with the compliment. “The Vanyamar one is still in the tenders stage so we might not get it, though I have a good feeling about it.”

“What projects?” Maeglin wonders; Tirion seems to be perpetually under construction, but somehow he doesn’t think that Gothmog builds regular suburbia units.

“Mainly knocking down some of the worst tenement buildings in Edebrhaen,” Gothmog replies, “and building new flats as well as some much-needed student accommodations there.” He’s been working on the planning stages for almost a year now, alongside one of the best architectural firms in the city – knowing the owner’s daughter is an excellent way to broker a good deal – and with the funding he secured from Doriath Invest the project will be breaking ground in only a few weeks. 

Maeglin’s knife stills. He’d heard about something big going on, and a couple of the old high-rises had disappeared from his rooftop view a few months back. He’d had no idea who was behind it, but some people he knows have complained about having to leave their homes on short notice. People who had leases had been able to relocate with the city’s help, but some of those who were homeless and lived in the vacant storehouses and ditches had been forced to find shelter elsewhere. Maeglin wonders if Gothmog knows that side of the story.

“A lot of poor people who live in that area aren’t going to be able to afford the higher prices of a new building,” he says carefully.

“But that’s the best part!” Gothmog exclaims, leaning forwards as he gestures with his hands, “my project is _designed_ to be affordable, even for single people. As I’ve calculated it, you can get a one bedroom flat for 1000 Amans a month!” It’s not unreasonable, he knows; in parts of Tirion that money wouldn’t even buy a spare room in someone’s house. “I have a meeting with some of the community outreach associations in the area next week – it’s my hope that the project might help some of the less fortunate citizens of Tirion into the job market.” It had taken long hours of talking – and more than a few afternoons spent with Jacques trying to work out how to approach people who’d see his money more than his genuine desire to help – to shape the new Edebrhaen Towers. Philanthropy has been one of the cornerstones of the project since its conception, and if Gothmog is honest, he thinks that is one of the heavier weights on the scale at Doriath Invest; Melian has always had a soft spot for the less fortunate.

Gothmog looks genuinely excited – not that Maeglin had expected anything else. Listening through his introduction, Maeglin really hopes it’ll turn out as smooth as Gothmog seems to expect. Lowering his fork and knife, Maeglin leans back, sipping his water – the lace abruptly digs into a particularly uncomfortable spot, and he briefly wonders how it is even possible he didn’t notice what he’s wearing until he went to touch his cock. He dearly hopes Gothmog won’t notice the heat that clings to his cheeks.

“That’s noble and all,” he says after a moment, meaning it, “but I know for a fact the official population count isn’t even close to the truth. When people get chased out of the vacant houses, it’s going to reflect on the streets, and the real estate value is going to plummet before you’ve sold a single building. I don’t know if those are people the city can rein in by offering them work. There’s deeper issues involved than that.”

“You seem to know the area – what would _you_ do?” Gothmog wonders, taking another bite of his steak. Maeglin looks flush with a different kind of passion than Gothmog has seen before and it only makes him _more_ kissable. “I’m not naïve enough to believe that there will be no problems with trying to update the worse off parts of our city, but I cannot… I am not one to sit in an ivory tower and ignore the world around me, Maeglin, it’s not in my blood.”

Maeglin swallows the bundle of nerves Gothmog’s words have tied in his throat. For a moment, he feels an echo of something Idril had once shouted at her father ringing through his mind. She had used that phrase ‘ivory tower’ to describe Turgon, and Maeglin can’t say she was wrong, exactly. And if Gothmog’s project can do just a fraction of the good Idril’s foundation has managed… He busies himself with the fish, picking at the succulent flesh and spearing potatoes with his fork, stuffing his mouth to give himself a second.

“I know – I know you aren’t. You’re different,” he admits, gladly, trying to smile reassuringly. This kind of conversation is new – and somehow it feels worse that Gothmog seems to be perfectly honest about it, and Maeglin just… can’t. “I don’t think there’s a short-term fix,” he begins, eyeing Gothmog slyly, trying to gauge his reaction. But Gothmog’s face doesn’t lose its animated interest, and Maeglin feels something big and unnameable swell in his chest at the sight. “But w-… _they_ need schools, day-care centres, youth centres – something to keep the kids off the street so they don’t end up selling drugs or themselves,” he continues, pausing for some more water. “Children are the future, and right now… they don’t have a chance; the wrong kind of people have too much sway.” Maeglin can’t help thinking of Corben and his… associates. He knows Corben is as much part of the problem than he is a victim, a single cog in a big machine. “To make a difference, you have to break the status quo.” He sighs, giving Gothmog a soft smile. “People have claimed they’d fix Edebrhaen for years… but I think you might be the first one who’s at least… trying.”

“Hmm…” Gothmog frowns, taking a sip of his excellent wine as he thinks over Maeglin’s words. “You raise a good point, Maeglin, thank you – actually mind if I make a quick call?” Pulling out his phone when Maeglin just nods, he scrolls through his contacts. 

It picks up on the seconds ring – a good sign.

“Good evening, my Lady,” he greets, at his most charming, “sorry for interrupting your dinner, but I was wondering if you still had an in with that bloke with the corner lot we looked at for ET – the non-residential one, aye? I’m having dinner with this fabulous guy I met and he pointed out that what Edebrhaen truly needs is an active community – if we can swing it, I was thinking a leisure centre, you know, youth clubs, home ec, lecture hall, various adult classes…” Gothmog nods, giving Maeglin a grin that’s only a little smug. “Aye,” he replies, humming agreement; if there is a city grant to apply for, he’ll consider that, too. Idril really is the best of friends a guy could have. “But if I must I’ll fund it myself – can you get one of your lovely assistants to put together a quick ballpark kind of thing? I want to bring it to Melian – _yes, I got Doriath, you knew I would_ ,” he grins, feeling warm at the sound of her approval.

Maeglin stares, dumbstruck, as Gothmog talks to whoever is on the other end of the line – he has to put the utensils down and grasp his hands under the table to keep them from shaking.

It was so easy. He doesn’t know how he did it, but if this is real, then it’s going to be a gamechanger for a lot of people, and maybe… maybe the next generation of Maeglins is going to be much smaller, thanks to Gothmog. Thanks to Gothmog who somehow _listens_.

“Anyways, technically this is a date,” Gothmog continues, smiling like he hasn’t just… _done that_ , “I should get back to him – we’ll talk in the morning, aye?” 

When he hangs up, stuffing the phone back into his briefcase, he holds out his wine glass, offering Maeglin a small toast.

“You know, you’re not half bad at this – maybe I should hire _you_ ,” he teases. “Or maybe you’d prefer a _different_ type of reward…?” Waggling his eyebrows, Gothmog is delighted to see Maeglin’s flush spread, recognising the lust in his eyes. 

“I…” Maeglin starts, voice quiet and rasping. Coughing lightly to clear his throat he tries again, eyes big and inscrutable and full of emotion he doesn’t know how to handle, really. “I want to kiss you so hard right now.”

“Well, I won’t say no to that?” Smiling, Gothmog leans across the table, “I wasn’t certain you’d be alright with kissing in public…”

Maeglin doesn’t say a word – he merely licks his lips and leans forward, fingers finding the silken length of Gothmog’s tie and wrapping about it, tugging him forward just a little until their mouths find each other, hot and maybe a tad demanding even if Maeglin’s suddenly so overwhelmed with gratitude the little pant that escapes his lips is shaky against Gothmog’s tongue. Everything inside him has just turned into a fluttering mess, his heart throbbing at his throat and at his loins, and it’s not a small urge he feels to climb over the table and just…

“Enjoy your meal?” The waitress asks, interrupting possibly the hottest kiss Gothmog’s ever received while fully dressed. Pulling away from Maeglin, he tries not to glare at her.

“Smaug sent you out here, didn’t he,” he sighs, patting down his tie. The girl flushes, nodding almost imperceptibly. Looking at Maeglin, he gives an apologetic smile. “I don’t always know why I’m friends with that guy, really. Sorry.” Nodding at the waitress who looks like she wishes she could be serving _any_ other couple right now, he turns the smile softer, forgiving. “I don’t blame you at all – bloody dragonboy has always been a cock-blocking fiend – though you may as well bring the check… I think we’ll take dessert elsewhere.” Glancing back at Maeglin, Gothmog can’t help licking his lips, hoping it’s less lecherous than he fears. There’s something about Maeglin though, something that’s pressing all the right buttons with him and he’s fairly sure lascivious looks are the least of his problems when it comes to his new lover. 

Flushed and a little chagrined, Maeglin settles back into his seat, looking away from the waitress while downing what’s left of his glass of water. When he glances at Gothmog, the hot and not-so-subtle gesture isn’t lost on him, suddenly making all clothes feel too tight.

A part of him – and not a small part – is telling him to excuse himself and go back into the restroom to peel off the incriminating piece of clothing, but still he stays, frozen, with his pulse beating rapidly against the seam that’s insistent on digging into his groin, probably pressing a frilly lace pattern dent into his skin right now…

“Yeah,” he says, biting his damp lower lip, briefly wondering if he wants to get hurt even more than he wants to get fucked – even now, with this impossible arousal, Maeglin can feel it coming, preying on him, a thundercloud in the distance heralding his downfall. There’s a thrill to it, like the sudden knowledge you’re going to lose all your money in the poker table. And his cock feels just as trapped as he does, restrained by its lacy bondage. “Let’s get out of here.”

He’s got his card ready almost before the girl – still looking a bit flushed – returns with the bill. “Tip yourself 30%,” he says, distracted by the way Maeglin is biting his lower lip, though he remembers to smile at the girl. “For whatever remark Smaug’s just made.”

Packing up his things, he’s almost sad that Maeglin’s already got his jacket on – part of him really wanted the chance to slide his hands over those thin shoulders under the guise of gentlemanly behaviour.

“My place?” he asks instead, gathering up his briefcase and trolley handle in one hand as he offers Maeglin his free arm. “Or yours?”

The question makes Maeglin pause, his mind once more entertaining the terrifying scenario of letting Gothmog into his place, but it still doesn’t feel any less impossible. He smiles as comfortably as he can, looping an errant lock of hair behind his ear. Gothmog radiates heat at his side, and Maeglin feels he has all his attention now, with the way those blue eyes keep ghosting over his body. It’s at the same time wonderful and slightly scary.

“Yours, if that’s okay. I haven’t cleaned up in a while…” In an attempt at chivalry, he offers his hand to carry some of Gothmog’s burden for him. “Come on, I’ll still have one arm for you.”

“You’re sweet,” Gothmog murmurs, turning to press his lips against Maeglin’s cheek. Opening the door, he nods Scatha farewell – she still looks a little disturbed, but returns his greeting. Smaug, of course, is nowhere to be seen though he’s sure to have left a good thirty text messages by morning if his past track record’s any clue. “Flag down a cab, will you?” 

The whistle cuts through every nerve in his body, carving a path in his brain, perhaps, but it _is_ effective; Maeglin’s summoned cab stops before them within 40 seconds and the Dragon isn’t even located on a particularly busy street. 

Gothmog’s ears are still ringing when he gives the cabbie his address, leaning back into his seat with a sigh of relief. 

It’s been a long day. 

Maeglin slides into his seat next to Gothmog, arranging his long legs comfortably before looking over towards the man. He seems tired – Maeglin doesn’t want him to be tired, but besides that a trace of concern finds him, prompting the softly spoken words “you alright?” from him, his fingers gliding over the big warm hand in a slow caress. The buzz of the restaurant has turned into the calming hum of the traffic, lights bathing Gothmog’s face in different hues, bringing out the reds and golds about him, glinting off the blue eyes. Maeglin realises he’d really missed the man, and the thought stings.

“Thank you for dinner,” he purrs, leaning over to brush the tip of his nose over Gothmog’s cheekbone, landing a kiss in the corner of his mouth.

Cupping Maeglin’s face, Gothmog pulls him back for another kiss, soft and slow… or at least that was his intention. The seatbelt Maeglin never put on doesn’t stop him when Gothmog’s hands travel down his body and Gothmog’s not sure if either of them truly _decided_ to move, but by the time he needs to break for air Maeglin’s straddling his thighs and has one hand wrapped in his tie, tugging him back to those tempting lips.

“You’re… _so hot_ ,” he mutters, chasing kisses down Maeglin’s neck. “Clever Maeglin.”

“Oh y-yeah?” Maeglin mutters, sucking in a breath when Gothmog’s lips find a particularly tender spot, his fingers tightening around the fabric of the abused tie. The space is too tight – Maeglin’s hitting his head against the spotty ceiling every now and then, but somehow being cramped up like this makes it even better. There’s no room for many thoughts, either.

“You’re hotter, Lavalocks. Made of fire and… stuff.” With a sigh that turns into a groan, Maeglin wrests Gothmog’s face back up for his kisses, inviting himself in and reacquainting himself with the taste and feel of Gothmog once more, the hand not holding the silken tie like a leash combing through the previously neat hair.

It’s _good_.

With a grin, Maeglin bears down, slides his fingers beneath the jacket and flicks his thumb over one pierced nipple, loving the heat of skin he can feel even through cloth.

_“I can’t wait to get you naked.”_

Gothmog groans, licking his way into Maeglin’s sweet mouth as his own fingers play out delicious harmonies across Maeglin’s skin. The cabbie – he’s certain he’s seen the guy give him an indulgent grin in the mirror – means he won’t go so far as to put his hands under Maeglin’s clothes – exhibitionism is one of those things that should be discussed beforehand, he feels – but his arse, even through the denim, feels as amazing as Gothmog remembers. Groping and kneading the supple but firm flesh, he sighs against Maeglin’s lips. 

“I think this perfect arse is going the right way for a good seeing to,” he promises, hissing when Maeglin flicks the metal in his nipple again. “Fuck, Maegs, I want you, naked and writhing on my bed...” _I want to turn that lovely arse an even lovelier shade of pink and hear you moan with every stroke of my hand_. Sucking Maeglin’s tongue back into his mouth, Gothmog tastes him deeply, drinking down those perfect little mewling sounds that Maeglin can’t seem to hold back – not that Gothmog _wants_ him to, really – and feeling happy that his slacks have more give than Maeglin’s jeans. Still, he’s slightly uncomfortable, more than halfhard and pressed into Maeglin’s thigh, feeling every bounce and move of his lithe shape like a shiver of lust running up his spine. Grabbing the back of Maeglin’s head, fingers twisting into those inky curls, Gothmog growls with the pleasure of having his little minx back in his arms. 

“I did–” Kissing him is so good and not enough and still Gothmog never wants to stop “miss you, Princess.” 

Gothmog sucking Maeglin’s tongue is taking him to many pleasant imaginary places – fuck he’s a good kisser – and Maeglin lets him, pushing against him and palming the hard pectoral, squeezing Gothmog with his thighs even harder and stopping just short of undulating his hips. Gothmog’s hands are splayed over Maeglin’s buttocks, unknowingly kneading the flimsy cloth beneath, giving Maeglin an illicit, dangerous sort of pleasure.

For a second, he wonders if he could play them down as a joke for all this princess-talk. It might slip through. It wasn’t Maeglin’s original plan, but –

_No._

They are _Thuri’s_. Maeglin shouldn’t forget that. When Gothmog sees them, shit will hit the fan so hard it’ll fly all over the district. This is something Maeglin’s doing on purpose – to not go with it would be to fuck everything up even worse in the long run. Then he’ll never know. Then Gothmog will never know.

He hisses with pain-edged desire when Gothmog grabs his hair, his hand tightening around the tie in answer, and the look Gothmog gives him is so amazingly hot and possessive Maeglin wants to dive into it and never resurface.

“You’re going to – to have to prove that,” he whispers, closing his eyes at the delicious assault but daring to bite into the softness of Gothmog’s lip, drawing the flesh of it into his mouth and bathing it with his tongue. “ _All_ of that. I want to feel it in my fucking skin, Gothmog.”

The lick of pain only heightens the passion, making Gothmog purr beneath Maeglin’s hands and press him tighter against his chest.

“Your skin, hmmm?” he mumbles, returning the small bite with a nip of his own. Squeezing one globe in his hand, Gothmog grins wickedly, “Want me to leave marks of my kisses all over you… or want me to turn this pretty little butt cherry-red for ya?” His own cock seems to agree with both those scenarios, and the way Maeglin is pressed against him only makes coherent thought harder. Instead, Gothmog returns those wicked lips, kissed bright red and full, sucking Maeglin’s tongue back into his mouth before he has the time to answer.

“We’re here, mates,” the cabbie suddenly says, grinning at them in the mirror, “not that I’m opposed to continuing if you two need a bit more time?”

 

* * *

 

Maeglin thinks he’s developing a liking for ties.

They are useful, for one, steering big red-headed beasts and pulling them back against your touch-starved body – and if the trip to Gothmog’s apartment takes a bit longer because Maeglin keeps stopping them to kiss at every turn, he might consider it a worthy trade-off.

Distantly, he wonders if he’s stalling. He doesn’t know if he has the wherewithal to step back from this _want_.

“ _Hurry_ ,” he finally drawls when Gothmog’s trying to get a hold of his keys with Maeglin’s body wrapped against his back, rubbing his hardness against the almost equally hard buttock. 

“You’re such a bossy wee bottom,” Gothmog grins, opening the door and turning around to steal Maeglin’s outrage in a kiss that gets them through most of the living room before it ends. “Come here.” Undoing the button on Maglin’s jeans, Gothmog can _finally_ slide his hands beneath that denim, filling his palms with well-rounded flesh – and... _silky softness?_  

Lost in the kiss, his confusion takes a while to push to the fore, his hands busy squeezing and rubbing over Maeglin’s delectable behind, fingers feeling incongruous bits of…lace?

Drawing back, Gothmog stares at Maeglin, whose face is at once defiant and heartbreakingly scared, trying for bravado and falling short. 

“What are you wearing, darling?” he asks gently, finger playing across the barely-there scraps of fabric that would have been far more familiar to his fingers if it had been Arien’s bottom filling his hands instead of Maeglin’s. Pushing away all thought of his ex-fiancée, Gothmog leaves his hands where they are and waits for Maeglin to respond. An image appears in his head, one of Arien’s frilly red lingerie pieces superimposed over Maeglin’s skinny hips and the answering surge of arousal almost makes him stumble a step back.

 _The cat’s on the table_ , Maeglin thinks as soon as Gothmog’s hands slip into his jeans – it’s too late to take any kind of evasive action now, too late to excuse himself into the bathroom and pretend that the fish gave him shits, and too late to come up with some elaborate lie he’s been avoiding to think of the entire ride here. Gothmog pulls back to look at him, and Maeglin fancies he’s seeing much more than he meant to show.

Confusion. Maeglin can feel himself mirror it as soon as Gothmog speaks, voice brought quiet and somehow soft, and something inside him fucking _crumbles_. It takes a second to unclench his jaw enough to speak, and another for any kind of voice to come out – he’s too aware of Gothmog’s big hands resting on his backside, how they’d just felt gliding over the decadent fabric, and being able to look him in the eye requires so much resolve Maeglin doesn’t think he has enough.

He swallows, eyelashes fluttering down to hide the shadow in his gaze – when he looks up again, he’s summoned all his willpower, feels it like he feels the adrenaline in his veins, the urge to flee still banging at the door with worrying urgency. It doesn’t succeed in making Maeglin step back – he’s still, very still, and then slips a hand behind Gothmog’s neck, stroking the soft skin at his nape.

“Something pretty,” he says, hating his own voice, _“for you.”_

Gothmog’s fingers flex without conscious command, bringing Maeglin close enough he can be in no doubt of his feelings on the matter. Pulling one hand away from that too-tempting backside, Gothmog opens the door to his bedroom and walks them through it in another soul-drugging kiss, tugging Maeglin along until the bed hits the back of his legs. Sitting on the duvet, Gothmog begins to unbutton his shirt, drawing each button through the fabric with his eyes still locked on Maeglin’s. His voice has gone all deep and husky, gravelly accent rough enough to make Maeglin shiver in his arms when he leans in, uttering only two words of clear command:

“Show me.”

Maeglin’s brain bluescreens.

It’s with a bit of delay he realises what’s happening, blinking in the gentle light of the bedroom, his hair mussed and lips kissed into a state of persistent tingling.

_Good gods._

He recognises a command when he hears one – it makes his authority issue dig itself out of the rubble of his teenage years immediately, but he forces it back down and closes the lid on it – and lets the mood of it guide his hands up to his front to unbutton his best – only, really – shirt, slowly, feigning seduction though his stupid digits are just too fucking shaky for anything this delicate.

Gothmog’s eyes are churning, dark, his face set in a way Maeglin hasn’t seen it before. He’s positive there’s something bestial about it. Primal. It’s not the face of a man who seeks to humiliate someone.

Maeglin’s heart drops a couple of inches down from his throat at that, and he manages to undo his shirt with relatively steady hands, shrugging out of it and feeling the air on his skin.

Then he realises two can play this game, and he might just as well – he doesn’t drop Gothmog’s gaze when he pulls off his socks, discarding them on the floor, and steps close to him again, fondling that wrinkled tie and pulling it taut before letting it go. Imagining music, he sways his hips a little, runs his fingertips slowly over the flat of his belly, over the curves of his ribs and the peaked pink nipples, shivering as his own touch brings out the goosebumps along his skin.

Pushing at Gothmog’s leg with his knee to part them wider, Maeglin stands between them and imagines he owns the space, licking his lips as he looks down into the piercing blue eyes, teasing Gothmog with the smooth side-to-side rocking of his hips, passing featherlight fingers over the broad span of impressive shoulders.

“Look at you,” he whispers, surprisingly soft and sultry at least in his own ears, “that look in your eyes should be made illegal. I’m sure it could be weaponised somehow.”

Gothmog shrugs out of his own shirt, leaving the tie to hang loosely around his neck. He swallows saliva as his hands come to rest on Maeglin’s slowly swaying hips. “Show me.” He repeats the words, thumbs rubbing slowly over the waistband of Maeglin’s jeans. The desire coursing through his veins is in no way hidden when he looks up at Maeglin, leaning in very slowly to mouth deliberately at a small beauty mark by his right hip bone. “Show me,” he says again, softly, but no less commanding, part of him certain that his cock will burst through his slacks soon it’s so hard.

When Gothmog looks and speaks like that, Maeglin doesn’t think he could deny him many things at all. He makes a muted sound of lust and pulls away from the reach of those tempting lips, trying and failing to mentally ready himself for what might happen next.

It’s a game. It must be a game. Just another game.

Still, there’s no world or time Maeglin would have thought he’d show himself to anyone like this, and the look he offers doesn’t quite manage to hide how fucking vulnerable he feels for too many reasons.

“Please…” he murmurs – but doesn’t know how to continue so he just shuts up instead, bringing his hands up to his lowered waistline and popping loose the first button, conscious of the first inch of skin it reveals.

Then another…

And another.

He can’t help throwing a small nonverbal prayer to whoever might listen to the likes of him in that moment, though he doesn’t even know what he’s asking for.

Maeglin hooks his thumbs under the loosened fabric and skims it down, slower than he thinks he’s ever done anything in his life – or so it feels, and even so it’s over too soon, and he’s stepping out of his bundled-up jeans and knows he’s somehow more naked than he’s ever been in front of anyone.

He doesn’t dare to look if there’s recognition in Gothmog’s eyes. He’s certain there must be. He doesn’t want to see that earlier all-consuming desire become doubt, disgust, anger. Suddenly, Thuri feels so much _smaller_ – this is too much about Maeglin, and something about him he doesn’t have a name for, and it terrifies him more than anything else. The fact that he’s rock-hard under that strip of lace, showing his nature to Gothmog, is a fast contender for that prize, though.

_Say something._

Tracing a small rosette of lacework, Gothmog feels Maeglin tremble beneath his hands. Looking up at his face he sees that same fear he glimpsed before, and if it’s not a turn on to realise how much Maeglin trusts him to show him _this_ , this private part of himself that looks so _right_ … then Gothmog doesn’t know what _is_.

“Fuck you’re hot…” he breathes, reverently, sliding his hands around those slim hips to cup Maeglin’s buttocks. Leaning in, he kisses that same mark, following the line of Maeglin’s hip until his lips meet the lacy edge of the women’s panties, continuing until he can feel the weeping slit of his cock through the fabric, mouthing around the head standing so firm behind its soft silk prison.

Maeglin feels the tickle of beard before he feels the lips, hot and soft and open so that the warm breath freely caresses his skin in short huffs – he sways a little on his feet, suddenly feeling unsteady though he doesn’t think any power in the world could make him move now. The knot of anxiety he’s been carrying all evening melts into something else and makes him twitch and gasp when Gothmog mouths at his cock, bringing his hands up to tentatively pet the messy flame-coloured hair.

It feels different, and right, and wrong, but Gothmog’s making it more right. Maeglin bites his lip, can’t help pushing slightly forward against the heat of Gothmog’s mouth. It feels like a dream – everything does.

“Gothmog…”

Running his fingertips into Maeglin’s crack, tickling over his hole, Gothmog hums to himself. Drawing away from Maeglin’s erection, he rests his head against his leg when he looks up, those dark eyes blown wide with lust as he mewls a small protest, fingers tight in Gothmog’s hair.

“You know,” he offers, like it’s a secret, his fingers continuing to play over the stretched-taut fabric, “I can’t decide if I want to suck you till you cum in these…” Feeling Maeglin tremble lightly, he continues huskily, “or if I want to throw you down on my bed and finger you open enough for me to fuck you until you cum in these…” Nuzzling against Maeglin’s straining cock, Gothmog waits for the verdict, his own steel-hard erection forgotten for a moment. 

Maeglin shivers at the impossibility of that choice – at the way Gothmog looks up at him, all red-golden heat and with eyes bluer than the inner cone of a bunsen burner, touching him like he’s something holy though with unholy ways, with fingers and lips that are definitely wicked.

Gentling his hands in Gothmog’s hair, Maeglin smooths it back, gathers the lengths of it to the back of Gothmog’s head and then lets it go, watches it tumble back to regain its territory. In the silence between them, Maeglin wonders if Gothmog can hear his heartbeat – if it speaks truer than Maeglin ever can, if it could do the talking for him…

Nothing’s gone the way Maeglin thought it would today. Out there, the universe must be laughing at him.

“I –”

In that moment, Maeglin wants to detach his mangled roots from the fruitless soil he’s made his home into, scrape his vines off the cracked concrete wall and hand himself over entirely – each memory, bad and bittersweet, the ill-healed scars and still bleeding wounds, let Gothmog burn it all away, cauterise him and keep whatever is left when all that is gone…

He’d left his home with anger, fear, confusion, struggling hope, and yet empty. This thing he feels now, it’s the opposite of empty, raw and somehow unhinged, but Maeglin looks at Gothmog and feels himself focus, throw sparks beneath the lips that start to quest again, wrapping Maeglin’s entire existence between the space of Gothmog’s mouth and his hands. He’s so hard he fears he’ll break – either himself or the lacy thing trying to keep him decent and failing – and so damnably lightheaded he’s worried he’ll collapse sometime soon.

With fingertips made of glass, Maeglin touches the space beneath the rich red beard, finds the spot he marked before and many others he wants to latch his mouth onto – with a small sound of suppressed, barely-contained _everything_ , he slips his fingers under the silk of Gothmog’s tie, careful not to make him uncomfortable but perhaps toying with the idea a little in some braver corner of his mind.

His voice sounds thin, strained, not his, but the words “please don’t stop” must belong to him, so fucking molten they drop from his tongue, nearly as hot as the lips smearing precum across the thin red lace.

“– Please, please – fuck – touch me _Urunya_ , I want – I want you _so bad_ …”

Looking up at Maeglin, flushed and quivering yet so motionless, Gothmog grins. Running his thumbs along Maeglin’s prominent hip bones, he hooks the scrap of lace. Leaning in, he gives him a coy long lick through the fabric, sucking the head into his mouth for a moment or two. Tugging the lacy fabric down ever so slowly, he leaves it where it rests when the head of Maeglin’s cock is finally fully exposed, a deep flush of colour against pale skin, gleaming wetly with precum as he studies the image he makes. 

“So beautiful,” he murmurs, “so brave.” Because what Maeglin is doing _is_ brave, he knows, especially when he’s given no indication of having this kink beforehand and Gothmog has never even realised it was a possible kink to have until this very night. It speaks to something that curls up warm and content in the pit of his stomach purring with satisfaction as he draws Maeglin’s cock into his mouth, sucking him slowly. The hand fisted in his tie tightens when Maeglin moans, and Gothmog thinks there might be another kink to explore there. Not tonight, though, he decides, releasing Maeglin’s cock to the work of his hand as he mouths at his balls barely contained in the women’s underthings he’s wearing. His free hand undoes the tie, sliding the silk off his neck and then Gothmog puts Maeglin’s fingers back into his hair, returning his hand to its grip on a meaty buttock. Continuing to run the tip of his index finger over and around Maeglin’s hole, pressing gently from time to time, Gothmog sucks him further into his mouth with a happy moan at the flavour spreading over his tongue.

Maeglin doesn’t have much time to ponder Gothmog’s definition of _brave_. A spontaneous _oh Gods_ bursts from his lips when Gothmog takes him deeper, chases the cold from his damp skin with his mouth while his finger flirts with Maeglin’s entrance, rubbing the thin fabric over it with deft, knowing little moves.

Maeglin loves how Gothmog never hesitates. He’s so sure, yet never stops feeling for new ways to make Maeglin keen louder, not even when Maeglin finds himself gripping the flaming locks a little too tight. He looks down and watches, mesmerised, the gleam of Gothmog’s lips and the flutter of his eyelashes as he works on Maeglin’s length, the stark contrast of the ginger beard against the black stripe running down Maeglin’s lower belly – and the red fabric, now drawn under Maeglin’s cock, stretched taut.

He moves back against the hand to feel the finger dip a little into him, then slightly forward into the lushness of Gothmog’s mouth and has to bite his tongue to keep himself from groaning too loud, fingers tangling in soft hair.

“S-so good, Gothmog, it feels so good, please don’t stop – yes –”

He hasn’t done this properly in too long, Gothmog knows, appreciating the panted praise Maeglin rains down on him as half-forgotten skills resurface, moving his tongue and his lips and the muscles in his throat off something a little more than instinct. Maeglin’s hole is soft enough that he can press the tip of a finger inside, the lace of the panties a new texture sliding over skin as he presses Maeglin forwards a bit more, takes him a little deeper. Rolling Maeglin’s balls through the soft fabric is beyond fascinating and something Gothmog wants to explore further... _later_. 

He remembers how to stop himself gagging, breathing through his nose as he swallows hard, milking Maeglin the best he knows how, listening for every little moan and feeling his thighs quiver from the strain of standing. Maeglin’s fingers leave pinpricks of pain in his scalp, never truly rough, but driving Gothmog’s own desire higher. 

When Gothmog swallows around him, Maeglin thinks he blacks out for a second from the near-painful amount of bliss. His hole is definitely trying to suck Gothmog’s finger deeper despite him being dry back there, twitching under the expert touch while the translucent fabric clings to his cleft, teased deeper between his buttocks, and his balls are tightening in Gothmog’s grasp, growing more tender by the moment… 

Maeglin knows he can’t last. He doesn’t think he’s ever enjoyed a blowjob this much and finds the sight of Gothmog doing _this_ to him spurring him on just as much and quickly as the feel of him, that blessed heat of his mouth and those hands which manage to be gentle and firm at the same time. 

“I can’t – I’m going to come, Firebrand,” he warns, flushed all the way down to his chest, and manages to free his fingers from Gothmog’s hair to grab his shoulders instead, nails digging into the freckled skin. 

Gothmog hums in agreement, squeezing Maeglin’s buttock gently. Drawing back, he flicks his tongue around the head, looking up at Maeglin with a small smile.

He nods, feeling his mouth fill with the first spurt of salty-bitter liquid as Maeglin’s eyes roll back into his head, Gothmog’s grip on his hips all that seems to keep him upright.

Maeglin’s hips jerk on their own accord, twitchy little movements that drive him a little deeper into Gothmog’s mouth – he shudders through it, throws back his head and holds on tighter, his moan turning into a whimper as his climax drags on, glorious. It passes over to oversensitivity and beyond and _still he’s fucking floating_ , breathing shallow but forceful enough to stir Gothmog’s hair when he leans forward, holding onto the strong shoulders for support, black hair floating about his flushed face.

_“F-fuck.”_

He’s eloquent as ever, he knows, but there’s nothing which suits his feelings more right now. 

Gothmog licks his lips, tugging Maeglin into a kiss by the chin as he leans back, letting him fall forwards more or less controlled until Maeglin’s lying on his chest, spent cock tucked back into those ridiculously hot panties and Gothmog’s hands are free to roam across the expanse of his back, coming down to grab his arse every now and again for a good squeeze. His own hips move, not so much a grind as a continuing wave of pleasure running through him. 

Maeglin trembles, grateful for the heat of Gothmog’s body and lets himself melt against it for a moment, waiting for his breath to calm down while enjoying the slow pleasure of having those wonderful hands on him.

Turning his head, Gothmog nips at Maeglin’s ear, flicking the lobe with his tongue. 

“So what prompted _these_?” he murmurs, honestly curious, his palms filled with Maeglin’s butt and soft lace as he kneads the willing flesh slowly.

For the moment Maeglin pushes all the intrusive thoughts a little further away, closing his eyes at the feel of those lips playing at his ear. At least, when they are like this, he doesn’t have to look Gothmog in the eye when he answers with something that can be called truth only in the broadest sense of the word.

“Curiosity,” he whispers, then pulls up against one hand and kisses Gothmog, unhurried, grateful. The sticky feel against his chin makes Maeglin draw back far enough to look, a grin spreading across his lips. It feels weird, tugging at muscles he hasn’t used in days.

“What a mess, Lavalocks. That’s some true organic beard oil you have there.”

Gothmog sticks out his tongue at him.

“Curiosity, hmm?” he rumbles. “And what were you curious about, kitten?” Moving Maeglin slowly, Gothmog rubs the hardon that has in no way subsided against his silk-clad groin. 

Maeglin moans quietly at the way Gothmog moves him, then gasps when he finds himself giving a twitch against the thick pole pressed against him.

He doesn’t know what to say – he hardly has enough decent thoughts for it, and somewhere along the way he’d started hoping Gothmog wouldn’t ask too many questions. That was a fool’s hope, really. Of course Gothmog would be curious. This Gothmog, who still hasn’t shown any sign of recognition at the sight of his girlfriend’s panties on Maeglin.

Maeglin kisses Gothmog again, moves his hips against him in a slow circular motion, wipes a droplet of spunk from the corner of Gothmog’s mouth. His own taste lingers thick on Gothmog’s tongue, but Maeglin doesn’t pay it any mind other than the satisfaction of knowing he put it there.

“How you’d feel about this,” he whispers, softly, watching for any kind of change in Gothmog’s eyes. “I haven’t… not with anyone. I worried you’d…”

He can’t say _be disgusted_ , can he?

“…You’d think it’s wro- _weird_.”

“I think you’re blazing hot,” Gothmog says, pressing himself against Maeglin a little more firmly as proof. “And I can’t say I’ve ever thought about cross-dressing in that way before… but you’re giving me _ideas_.” He coats the last word with all the innuendo he can muster, picturing Maeglin’s long legs clad in thin nylon stockings and wrapped around his hips with a shiver. 

The praise makes Maeglin’s cheeks burn, though he doesn’t know what to think about the rest – he’s still trying to digest this evening and all that’s happened since the moment he put on these ridiculous panties.

“Well,” he murmurs, smiling as he reaches between them, unbuckling Gothmog’s belt and promptly unzipping him, “I have some ideas of my own too…”

An involuntary sound makes it past Maeglin’s lips when his hand closes around the thick cock, the heel of his palm dragging over the magnificent head while his fingers tease over the now-familiar but still exciting piercings. He’s missed it for days.

“How can I help you with this? Want me to suck it dry?” Maeglin smiles toothily at that, squeezing Gothmog’s flesh. “Still want to put it in me? Think I might be a little tighter today, though…”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Gothmog chuckles breathlessly, “I think I _always_ want to put that in you – in any way you prefer – but yes, I would definitely _love_ to fuck this tight wee arse.” Giving Maeglin a slight pinch, Gothmog adds slyly, “And if you want to be wearing this lacy contraption… I’ll... “ he trails off on a groan as Maeglin squeezes slowly.

Maeglin watches with intent, darkened eyes, as Gothmog’s jaw goes slack in a low noise, stealing the tail end of it with his tongue dipping into the sweet mouth, turning into a lewd kiss before he pulls back – and then returns to his catlike vigil, hand moving slowly.

“Would you like that?” he whispers, eyes like coal and lips soft and gleaming, hovering over Gothmog and rolling his hips in the rhythm of his hand. At almost 28, he’s not the machine he was at 18, but he knows he can go again in a minute if he can stall Gothmog just a while longer. “Fuck me while I’m strapped in a piece of women’s underwear? Pull me against your strong chest and tell me how _beautiful_ I am while I writhe on your big, thick cock?”

Maeglin glides a thumb over the gleaming head and pulls his hand back up, painting his lips gleaming with Gothmog’s essence and dipping his digit into his mouth, sucking it clean.

“Would you like that, Lavalocks?”

If the gleam in his eyes gives him away, Maeglin still doesn’t have time to react before Gothmog has rolled them over, rolling his hips down in a way that leaves the man beneath him in very little doubt – if any existed beforehand – of what Gothmog wants.

Reaching down, he carefully tucks Maeglin’s now half-hard cock back into the lacy panties. “You want to play with fire, eh, lad?” he growls, grinding down a few more times. “Turn over,” he commands, pitching his voice as low as it will go, lust turning the words liquid in his own ears. 

Maeglin turns. 

The red fabric creates a visual split of the creamy globes of his arse, showing through the lace. Gothmog smiles, rising to his knees on the bed and sitting back on his haunches, one hand reaching into the bedside drawer and picking up the bottle of lube he keeps there.

“On your knees,” he growls, pouring a healthy dollop of slick liquid into his palm, “show me this pretty arse, Princess.”

Maeglin huffs into the duvet, his heart picking up its pace at the sound of Gothmog’s voice, all low and gravelly and divine. He knows he’s been playing with fire the entire time, but it’s truly starting to burn, and Maeglin wants it to fucking _engulf_ him.

Crawling a little upwards towards the pile of pillows, Maeglin gathers his knees beneath him, letting out an audible sigh of anticipation as he bends his back, rounding up his backside for Gothmog’s viewing. The fabric climbs upwards, showing the pink traces where the seams have dug into his skin, now drawing taut over his balls. The thought of how he must look makes Maeglin flush, but he looks back over his shoulder, stretching his arms forward in a feline-like pose that further accentuates the curve of his back, lets his pebbled nipples scratch against the duvet.

“Like… so?”

 _Someone’s looking for a spanking_ , Gothmog thinks, not realising that the thought made it into words until he’s pulled Maeglin’s panties down to rest below his buttocks and feels him stiffen slightly.

For a second, Maeglin’s mind freezes, then runs over a million thoughts at the speed of light, counting all the playful smacks and pinches he’s received from Gothmog – from the gentlest of the light swats to the harder ones – never truly enough to hurt but more than sufficient to cause a delicious white-hot thrill to run down Maeglin’s spine.

Maybe Gothmog’s been holding out on him.

“Maybe I am,” he says after a couple of precious moments, throwing Gothmog a hot, daring look over his shoulder. “What would you do about that?”

“Tonight?” Gothmog wonders, stealing Maeglin’s response by breaching him with one thick finger, “Or in general?” Rubbing Maeglin’s left buttock with his free hand, he watches as first one, then two fingers disappear into Maeglin, the tight squelch of lubed-up flesh like sweet music. He opens beautifully, if a little slower than last time, and Gothmog enjoys listening for the small pants and moans that tell him where to stroke and where to tickle. “In general,” he murmurs, using his thumb to tickle Maeglin’s stretched rim while his fingers delve deeper, scissoring him open, “I would have no problem spanking you… if that was an agreed-to kink.” Bringing his hand down in a slight slap, watching Maeglin’s flesh jiggle and feeling the way he squeezes his fingers at the sting, Gothmog groans. “Tonight, however, I’m really more interested in fucking you into the mattress…” 

Maeglin’s toes curl at the occasional brush over his tender spot, and he no longer tries to suppress the ragged little sounds leaving him, pushing back against Gothmog’s hand – the slap against his butt cheek makes Maeglin’s entire body jolt, his cock hardening further and tenting the lace in a precarious fashion. He resists the urge to fix it, wrapping his fingers into the sheet instead.

“I – I have no qualms about you using your h-hands on me.”

_If you plan on something else, we might really need to discuss it… and take it slow, if anything._

The lingering warmth that spreads from the contact is a good thing, the tingle remaining for a while as Maeglin catches his breath, caught between that and the delicious burn of his stretching hole.

“How – however you like it, champ – I’m… I’m game. It’s been a while, but” – Maeglin cries out at an exceptionally good jab, tightening around Gothmog’s fingers until he has the wits to make himself relax again – “I think I’d really like it if – if _you_ did it…”

Gothmog hums thoughtfully, “You’ll be a good boy for me, will you, Princess?” he murmurs, leaning over Maeglin to press a kiss against his back, feeling the quick tattoo of his heartbeat against his lips. Grabbing the lube again, he slicks up his cock, pulling his fingers free of Maeglin’s needy hole with a wet sound and tugs him up by the hips to balance on his knees. “Let’s see how good you can be, then, Maeglin,” he rumbles, studying the pretty picture of Maeglin’s obscenely gaping arse framed by red silk and lace for a moment. “Stay like that.”

Maeglin’s whine of protest at the loss of thick hot fingers dies in a wordless murmur of excitement, though he hopes Gothmog will fill out the space he’s made in Maeglin fast with something big and wholesome. At the command from Gothmog’s lips he quivers, subtly adjusting his position and wondering how _still_ he’s meant to be.

Something in him wants to test it.

Something in him wants to obey, prove that he can do something that simple without failing.

Yet, who said this game is about winning or losing… Maeglin reckons he’s winning something either way. Hiding his smile in the crook of his arm, he waits…

Moving to lean over Maeglin’s back, Gothmog licks a stripe up the side of his neck, his erection sliding slickly over Maeglin’s well-prepared hole for a few thrusts. “I asked you a question, Maeglin…” Nipping at the lobe of his ear, Gothmog holds his own weight on his arms with ease. 

_Yer a bossy wee tease, Maeglin… but two can play at this game._

Feeling the small metal balls catch on the rim, Gothmog continues to thrust lazily, knowing that when he finally does fuck Maeglin, neither of them are going to last long.

Maeglin smirks, tilting his head to the side to give Gothmog more room to nip at his ear, and then gasps with surprise and delight when the barbells catch a little at him, rubbing over his well-lubricated opening with more than a hint of tease, making his cock leak another quickly smattered droplet into the already wet lace.

“…F-ffuck…”

Maeglin manages to raise a hand, twines his fingers into the messy red mane and tugs a little.

“…me. _Please_.”

Kissing his way down Maeglin’s spine, Gothmog can’t help the slight nip of one tempting cheek, catching Maeglin by the hips as he rises up on his knees once more. “Good boy,” he purrs, thrusting his hips forward in one long push, feeling the way Maeglin seems to almost _ripple_ around him. It’s too good and not enough, and Gothmog is quick to pull back, and quicker still to thrust home, his balls slapping against the softness of silk.

For a moment, he thinks Maeglin’s legs will give out, but somehow he manages to remain where Gothmog put him and if that isn’t fucking _hot_ Gothmog has no idea what _is_.

“Good boy,” he purrs, drawing back for another long stroke. “You take me so well, Princess…”

If Gothmog’s thrust isn’t enough to drive the air out of Maeglin, then his struggle to stay upright does, his hands and knees sliding on the soft duvet – he hisses, grabs the duvet cover in two white fists and pushes back just to counter the force of those powerful hips, his cock popping out from the net of lace and tapping against his belly.

The praise warms him from the inside out, makes him squeeze the steel-hard rod inside him and mewl at the sensation, and so he isn’t ready for the next stroke but lands face-first into the mattress, crying out with surprise and frustration and slipping somewhere there a profanity in another language, a muted growl that is too thin to be threatening.

Maeglin bites his lip and closes his eyes, squeezing the crown of Gothmog’s cock with his muscles. He’s not far from coming. Even this setting is his undoing – the heat of Gothmog’s skin like sun on his skin, the pleasure like waves, except everything’s _better_.

Rolling his head on the mattress, Maeglin looks to his side, managing to see very little of his beautiful tormenter but feeling him all the same, and mumbles a barely there apology.

The shift in angle makes Maeglin an even tighter squeeze around his cock and Gothmog’s mind is momentarily awash with pleasure as he follows Maeglin down to the mattress. “I thought I told you to stay on your knees, lad,” he rumbles, thrusting lazily but with enough force to deter Maeglin from trying to return to his former position. Not that Gothmog truly minds – this isn’t that kind of game, after all – listening to Maeglin’s whimper-sweet moans when he feels the piercings roll over his prostate. Keeping himself from falling entirely onto Maeglin’s back, Gothmog continues to fuck him in long slow strokes. “I guess you’ll have to cum without help, then,” he posits, sliding his hands up the duvet to cup Maeglin’s wrists and draw them back to a comfortable position for his shoulders. Speeding the motion of his hips gradually, Gothmog feels the inevitability of his own climax approaching, denied for too long to be held back much longer. 

The way Maeglin’s arse squeezes vicelike around him with every hit of his prostate does nothing to prolong his stamina, and the breathy cries for more and harder don’t help him much either.

Maeglin doesn’t get a chance to curse before this new angle drives all sanity out of his head, making him wail into air thick with the smell of sex. It’s fucking _brutal_ , and _beautiful_ , and it’s not like Maeglin needs any _help_ coming like this, with his cock pressed between his belly and the mattress and Gothmog nailing him down to the root.

The shuddering gasps of pleasure blowing warm air over skin that seems too sensitive and yet still wanting _more_ turn into a long low growl, almost bestial in nature. Gothmog's arms, solid like treetrunks a second ago, fold, and he is blanketed by searing warmth, ragged breaths panted into his shoulder, twitching spurts deep inside him filling him up with liquid warmth.

And still those powerful hips keep _moving;_ chasing every last ounce of pleasure as the body on top of him shudders through mind-blowing climax

“ _Urunya_ ,” he cries, then again, until the word turns into one long, winding vowel and he explodes, shaking in Gothmog’s hold, the tendons in his wrists and on the backs of his hands standing out white, his hole grasping Gothmog’s cock in a rhythmic pattern, whitening out Maeglin’s vision in blinding pulses. 

Gothmog is still holding Maeglin’s slender wrists when his mind reboots, his thumbs making tiny circles around the jutting bones. “You should eat more,” he ponders lazily, kissing Maeglin’s shoulder because it’s there. Nuzzling into his neck, Gothmog sighs, feeling sleepy. “...Stay,” he mumbles, holding him a little tighter when Maeglin stirs, releasing him after another wiggle, feeling his cock slip out of the home it’s already come to love and claim as its own. He should get up, find a washcloth or something. In a moment. Or five.

As a sentiment, lying there beneath a gorgeous hairy man who’s about to fall asleep on you is fucking amazing, but in practise it gets uncomfortable after a while, especially when you’re pressed against your own mess and have a crooked strip of lace and silk strapped around your suddenly very sensitive testicles and digging into the groove of your buttocks. Maeglin endures, bravely, until he feels Gothmog’s breathing is very close to actual state of sleep. Twisting under him until Gothmog’s forced to roll over, Maeglin then presses a slow kiss on those easily parting lips, one hand running through the slightly damp chest hair.

“I’ll come back,” he murmurs, combing Gothmog’s beard with his fingers so that it looks a little less wild, “rest up, stallion.”

Sliding out of the bed, Maeglin wriggles out of his soggy panties, unceremoniously stilling the milky stream leaking from his arse with them before hanging the garment on the bedpost, making a mental note to _not_ forget them there. A little unsteady, Maeglin makes his way into the bathroom, taking a cursory glance around – little has changed, except for a couple of missing knickknacks which are probably packed in Gothmog’s luggage.

Maeglin decides to have his own wash in the shower, rubbing himself somewhat clean of jizz and sweat and towelling his body dry before wetting a washcloth and returning, tiptoeing by instinct. He stops by the bed, watching the man – despite all the muscle and height Gothmog has, there’s something fascinatingly, almost terrifyingly, vulnerable when he’s like this, physical prime of a grown man toying with a boyish innocence of youth, making Maeglin realise Gothmog can’t be that many years older than he is. Beard, somehow, does a lot for that, though Maeglin thinks he really should have known better, judging by the youthful twinkle in his eye and the way Gothmog’s skin is soft and supple over tight muscle.

Quiet, but careful not to startle Gothmog, Maeglin lays a hand over one thick arm, stroking it while gently cleaning off the worst of their combined effort, unable to resist running a finger along that deep scar on Gothmog’s thigh, nearly hidden in the sinewy curl of a dragon’s spine. He never asked how Gothmog got it. Maybe he shouldn’t, though he really likes the tattoo designed to interact with it.

After a moment of sitting there, Maeglin starts to feel fatigue too, and gets up for one last time, using the bathroom and visiting the kitchen, shivering in the coolness of the night while filling up two tall glasses of water. He drinks half of his before replenishing it nearly to the brim, and returns to the bedroom with them, lowering both on the nightstand with a quiet click.

Gothmog blinks blearily at the sound. “Hey,” he whispers. “Go find yourself a t-shirt in the closet,” he yawns, pushing the duvet down with his legs, “– third shelf. You get cold sleeping.” His eyes falling shut, Gothmog pulls the comforting warmth of feather downs over himself.

“You know, I have like half of your closet at home,” Maeglin mutters, unsure if he meant Gothmog to hear him. He realises he’s wrong in that assumption the moment he opens the said closet, seeing the neat stacks and rows of clothes. Shaking his head in amusement, Maeglin tugs a black tee from atop of one stack, pulling it on before seeing the Angband logo on the front. Tour t-shirt from the time of their second album. Curious. Maybe he should ask where Gothmog saw them perform.

Satisfied with his choice, Maeglin clambers to bed, slipping under the duvet and pressing close to the furnace which will no doubt keep him from having hypothermia for the duration of the night.

For now, his head is pretty empty, but he takes one last look towards the red, rumpled thing draped over the bedpost like a flag before pressing his head against Gothmog’s skin, nuzzling the soft hair on his chest. Suddenly he’s so tired that even thoughts take too much energy, and he isn’t too sad about letting them drop out of his mind, one by one, into the darkness.

 


End file.
